


In The Shadow of the Blue Mountains: The Alpha and the Omega

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Genre: In the Shadow of the Blue Mountains, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the LJ hobbt_kink prompt: Dwarves and Hobbits are cross fertile, though hobbits do not know that because they are a race of Omegas, with no Alphas or Betas. Since it is dwarven custom to keep Omegas deep within their mountains where it is safe few could escape past Smaug when the dragon came to Erebor. Thorin, thusly, never had much hope of mating. Then he stumbles across an early-thirties Bilbo Baggins on one of his wanderings up near Bree, across the Brandywine. Smelling a fertile Omega, he kidnaps Bilbo and takes him to the Blue Mountains. Give me some confused!Bilbo who doesn't understand why he's been kidnapped by a dwarf who is being growly but NICE about it, and has no idea of the reason why! And Thorin patiently waiting for Bilbo's heat to start in the mountains so he can claim him! +100 for Bilbo falling for Thorin and becoming a willing enough and happy houseguest with no idea sex is in the making until it happens and then, reluctantly, agreeing to it. +1000 For hobbits having a heat that leaves them uncomfortable and sensitive rather than desperate for sex. PLUS MY SOUL for knotting with Bilbo not knowing what it is that's going up his arse, but Thorin holding him still and reassuring him through his panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alpha and the Omega

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: *****ON HIATUS . . . dunno when I'll update***** AU Set pre-The Hobbit. Told as a series of drabbles. Bilbo is a mere thirty-three and his parents are dead earlier than in the book. Oh, and A/O, so there's gonna be some slightly graphic descriptions of borderline dub-con sex. ::snorts:: Look who I'm warning.

Disclaimer: I didn't steal nothing from no one.

I

A branch snaps, somewhere, not at all far away—a footfall, and Thorin is woken from an unpleasant dream in which Erebor burns and his people are rendered homeless.

Only, it's not a dream, so much as a memory that replays itself whenever he sleeps, and has done for over a century.

 _Well . . . and more travel hasn't changed_ that _, I suppose,_ he thinks sighing, sitting up and reaching for his sword and oaken shield. Noiselessly, he gathers his arms to himself, and rolls to his feet. He creeps noiselessly through the grey morning toward the sound, nostrils flaring.

II

In the early morning silence, the sound of the branch Bilbo Baggins accidentally steps on is loud and a little unnerving, like a bone being snapped.

Shuddering, he adjusts his pack and continues on quickly through Chetwood, toward the Brandywine Bridge. But his peace of mind's been disturbed. The walk is no longer pleasant.

After a while, Bilbo has the distinct feeling that he's being . . . watched . . . _followed_.

Dismissing thoughts of orcs and goblins— _in the_ Chetwood _? Really, I've been listening to too many of Hamfast's Gamgee's stories_ —he marches on, making more noise than he'd like whilst trying to be quiet.

III

Thorin follows the young halfling—that is what he assumes the youth to be, though he has never seen one—quiet as a cat after a mouse. His sword is sheathed, his shield is down, and the remnants of his camp—gear and ponies—are forgotten. He's drawn partly by the what little he can see of the halfling through the trees and branches.

But more than that is the halfling's _scent_ which goads Thorin on. Sweet and spicy, like autumn leaves or cinnamon, with a musky undertone, it's the scent of someone . . . coming into their first season.

Helpless to do otherwise, Thorin follows.

IV

That watched-and-followed feeling only grows more intense—only urges Bilbo on faster and less quietly, till he's racing through the woods like an idiot, but unable to help himself.

Like a high-strung pony, he's been spooked.

 _I think this is the last I'll be stepping out onto the road for some time,_ he thinks, panting lightly. Just then, of course, as he's jumping over a fallen log, his left foot doesn't quite clear it. There's a sharp pain as his ankle twists. The next thing he knows, he's flat on his stomach.

In the silence that follows, footsteps pound toward him.

V

The halfling knows or senses he's being followed.

 _Thorin_ doesn't know what gave it away—he's been damn near silent while tracking the youth. Though perhaps, just as he can scent the halfling, the halfling can, wehther consciously or not, scent _him_.

But at least now that the halfling's making so much noise, Thorin no longer has to waste time and energy being quiet. He picks up his pace, never losing sight of the halfling.

At least until the halfling suddenly, and with a cry of pain, goes flying.

Heart in his throat and stealth forgotten, Thorin immediately runs toward him.

VI

Winded, Bilbo gets to his knees with a groan and tries to stand up.

Tries.

 _Well, that was a big mistake,_ he thinks almost cavalierly, as a wave of pain washes over him, originating from his left ankle. He goes back down to his left knee, unable to put any weight on his hopefully _only_ sprained ankle. _Damn._

Those pounding footsteps are closer, now, and Bilbo looks around, attempting to prepare himself for death-by-orc, or some such unsavory demise. But what emerges from the trees isn't anything like an orc, or even a goblin.

It's a . . . _dwarf_.

VII

Thorin pauses when he spies the halfling kneeling and glancing back over his shoulder.

The fright on his face is replaced by puzzlement, and Thorin is . . . _floored_ by the delicate _comeliness_ of him. Of smooth, ruddy skin; almost-auburn hair from which pointed ears peek; and an agile, economical grace as the halfling attempts to stand and fails.

Making a frustrated sound, the halfling glances back at Thorin again, his puzzlement turning to irritation.

“It's _sprained_ ,” he complains in rounded, clipped common speech. “Was there some _reason_ you were chasing me, Master Dwarf, or is today just my lucky day?”

VIII

Bilbo crosses his arms and waits for an answer. As he waits, he notices that not only is this dwarf rather large and broad, but he's _armed_.

Bilbo uncrosses his arms and tries to smile. “Er, please-and-thank you,” he adds, suddenly remembering that manners never hurt.

The dwarf merely stares at him, wide-eyed as if startled. Which makes no sense, considering who was chasing whom.

“Why were you chasing me?” Bilbo asks again, rather diffidently.

Suddenly, the dwarf—who appears to have several inches on Bilbo, and at least several stone, all of it muscle—is closing the distance between them.

IX

Thorin approaches the halfling slowly, hands held out to show that he's no holding a weapon. The halfling nonetheless forces himself to his feet quickly, despite the sprained ankle, his face a study in pain as it pales and he takes a few steps back.

Thorin follows. Can't _not_ follow that delicious autumn-cinnamon-musk scent to its source. Even when that scent has sharpened with pain and fear.

“I . . . apologize for frightening you,” he murmurs, and the halfling's eyes widen. They're the color of an autumn sky at noon.

Then the halfling's blushing and looking away. Thorin is . . . utterly enchanted.

X

Despite his ankle, which is screaming like a wounded mountain cat, Bilbo hobbles backwards. The dwarf matches him, hands still held out. “I mean you no harm, I only wish to. . . .” the dwarf says in a low, resonant voice.

“T-to?” Bilbo asks, when nothing more is forthcoming. His ankle is throbbing most horrendously.

“To. . . .“ the dwarf says, frowning as if he doesn't _know_ what he only wishes to. Then he closes the distance between them in five great steps.

Startled, Bilbo scrambles backwards, pain dumping him on his backside. The dwarf looms over him. . . .

XI

The halfling blinks up at Thorin, afraid once more and seemingly helpless.

It's now that Thorin realizes that he's been letting his . . . _desire_ goad him into acting like a youth barely into his first beard. That he's scared this . . . lovely creature into injuring himself.

And this close, no doubt, the halfling can scent that desire. May even be repulsed by it, under the circumstances. . . .

Kicking himself, Thorin holds out his hand and says, gruffly, grimly. “If you'll let me, I can bind that ankle for you at my camp, then give you a ride home . . . I have ponies.”

XII

Bilbo blinks up at the rough hand held out to him.

Thinking of the formerly brief journey back to Hobbiton, and now having to make that journey on foot—literally on _foot_ as he can barely tolerate weight on his left ankle, he sighs.

“Ponies, eh?” he says finally. He takes the hand, hesitantly, and is pulled up—not merely yanked to his feet, but summarily picked up by the dwarf as if he weighs nothing. Moments later—moments in which dark, dark blue eyes meet his own and linger wonderingly—he's being marched back in the direction from whence he came.

XIII

Every step back to camp is torture, for Thorin.

He can smell the halfling's scent stronger than ever and that, coupled with the pleasant weight of the halfling in his arms, is enough to drive him nearly mad with wanting.

“So,” the halfling says after a few minutes. His arms are no longer clenched panic-tight around Thorin's neck. “What's your name?”

Thorin stifles a groan, avoids the halfling's autumn-eyes, and tells himself he's not getting hard. “Thorin.”

“Dwarvish name, I take it?” The halfling laughs nervously at his own jest. “Well, I'm Bilbo Baggins . . . of the Shire.”

XIV

The march back to camp is uncomfortably silent for Bilbo who, it is widely known, has a tendency to talk.

The dwarf, Master Thorin, barely says anything during, though that could be because he's carrying a hobbit. But Bilbo's weight seems a negligible thing to the dwarf. His breathing isn't even labored.

Yet Bilbo, after a disastrous attempt at a joke, lets silence reign until they reach the dwarf's camp.

There are the remains of a fire, a disturbed bedroll, and indeed, ponies. Three of them, each only lightly laden.

_Perhaps Master Thorin's at the end of his journey, too. . . ._

XV

Thorin kneels and gently places the halfling, Mister Baggins, down on the bedroll, sorry for the loss of the slight weight and seemingly extravagant warmth in his arms.

“Thank you, Master Thorin,” Mister Baggins says softly, his eyes steady on Thorin's face. They are innocent, trusting eyes, and Thorin doesn't dare to meet them.

“It is nothing.” He stands up, tugging his tunic down as low as possible. Then he stalks across the clearing and gets about the business of unpacking the things he wants from the ponies, including the small travel-kettle and a certain kind of tea. . . .

XVI

“What're you doing?” Bilbo asks, vaguely suspicious as Master Thorin crouches over the fire-pit, focusing on getting a good fire going, and not, as he'd said, binding Bilbo's ankle.

Master Thorin doesn't answer till he has a strong flame going and his kettle resting over it.

“Making a tea that will . . . ease the pain. I don't wish to hurt you, while trying to help you,” he says in his gruff, resonant voice, and Bilbo suddenly feels bad for his suspicions.

 _Paranoid, provincial hobbit,_ he calls himself, and sighs, doubting he'd be this suspicious if Master Thorin was an elf.

XVII

When the tea is ready, Thorin is standing by with a small clay bowl.

He pours it, carefully not inhaling too much of the steam as he does, then brings the bowl to Mister Baggins, who takes it without hesitation. Those lovely eyes—Thorin makes the mistake of glancing at them . . . how clear they are! How trusting!—gazing up at Thorin with genuine gratitude.

“My thanks, Master Thorin.” Mister Baggins smiles. Thorin nods tersely.

 _I am_ not _doing this,_ he thinks, even as he realizes that _yes_ , he is.

“Drink up,” he says in a voice that brooks no argument.

XVIII

The tea is, of course, dreadful-tasting, as are all such teas for pain-relief.

But Bilbo drinks down the bowl in quick, careful sips, disregarding the scalding temperature. His ankle's finally stopped yelling at him, though the flesh around it is an angry, swelling red.

As soon as the tea is finished, Master Thorin is unrolling a length of gauze. He comes to sit tailor-style in front of Bilbo, who blinks up at him slowly, trying to bring the suddenly fuzzy dwarf into focus.

“ _Lilacs_ , Master Dwarf,” he says, and when Master Thorin glances up at him, confused, Bilbo snickers.

XIX

“I beg your pardon?” Thorin says, as Mister Baggins begins to sway whilst giggling like a maid. Thorin _almost_ smiles.

“I _said lilacs_. They're my faaaavorite flower. You should pick me some.” Mister Baggins nods earnestly, then frowns, holding up his hands. “Havens, why are my hands so _big_ , all of a sudden?”

He seems horrified, yet fascinated, clenching and unclenching his hands and waving them about.

 _Yes, it's starting to take effect,_ Thorin thinks wryly, just as the halfling lets out another giggle and slumps over, snoring.

Still almost-smiling to himself, Thorin begins wrapping Mister Baggins' ankle.

XX

Bilbo snorts and moans, and opens bleary eyes.

He's staring at what he takes to be the top of a pony's head, and that _can't_ be right.

He tries to clutch at the pony's mane as a means of not falling off, only to discover his hands are tied to the pommel of the saddle he's in.

He raises his heavy, groggy head and sees ahead of him, on another pony, a larger, broader figure than any hobbit, sable hair stirring gently in the breeze.

 _Master Thorin?_ he thinks, suddenly remembering . . . then wondering why he's tied to the pony like a prisoner.

XXI

“Er . . . beg pardon.”

Thorin glances back. Mister Baggins is, for the first time in the better part of three days, wide-awake.

Sighing, Thorin stops the ponies and dismounts, making his way to the confused halfling.

“So I wouldn't fall off?” he asks, smiling a hopeful smile and tugging at his bonds. Thorin nods.

“Thank you for your consideration, but . . . we're a good ways past my home, which is Hobbiton.” Mister Baggins says anxiously.

“I know,” Thorin says simply, putting a hand on the halfling's own to still them. “I'm taking you to the Blue Mountains. _My_ home.”

XXII

“I'm sorry . . . what?”

Master Thorin's hand is heavy and rough on Bilbo's own. Then it's joined by its mate and together they untie Bilbo's bonds. But even after the ropes have been loosened and undone, They linger over Bilbo's and Master Thorin stares up into his face, searching his eyes.

“I'm taking you to the Blue Mountains. We're nearly half-way there,” he says, and Bilbo, still in shock, takes a good look around. He doesn't recognize the land at all, only that they are, by the setting sun, farther West than he's ever been. “We'll stop for the day.”

XXIII

He doesn't try to run, and that's . . . gratifying.

And worrying.

In fact, Mister Baggins seems to not even be entirely present. When Thorin helped him out of the saddle—had cradled the halfling in his arms a bit longer than was necessary, Mister Baggins had merely looked at him, brow furrowed, and said: “I have no family to ransom me, if that's what you're after.”

Thorin had frowned and placed the halfling on his feet. Mister Baggins had hobbled a litle distacne away on an ankle that still clearly pained him, then sat.

Now, he watches from inscrutable eyes as Thorin starts the evening fire.

XXIV

“What do you want with me?”

After a silent evening of silent eating and then silent carefully-not-meeting-each-other's-gaze-ing, Bilbo finally has the nerve to ask, steeling himself against an answer he won't like.

Master Thorin looks at him from across the fire, with those measuring dark eyes, his nostrils flaring delicately, as if he smells something good.

“I wish for you to . . . be my guest in the Blue Mountains for the next little while,” he says quietly, an intent, intense look on his face Bilbo cannot read. He snorts, staring off into the dark.

“You mean your prisoner?”

XXV

“I mean my guest,” Thorin looks into the fire, eyes narrowing. “Never before have I seen your like. Nor my people.”

“Ah, so I'm to be a curiosity in your Blue Mountains, is that it?” Mister Baggins's eyes are on Thorin again and he shivers. “Will I merit my own cage, or will I be sharing it? Perhaps with some other poor creature you've captured?”

“No! You misunderstand me, Mister Baggins—“ Thorin begins and Mister Baggins snorts again.

“Do I?” he asks. “Then what could you possibly want with me?”

“Merely your company,” Thorin breathes.

XXVI

Bilbo shakes his head. “Why mine? I'm just a hobbit, Master Thorin. And a right _boring_ one, at that.”

“And yet I desire your company, nonetheless,” Master Thorin says, turning his intent gaze upon Bilbo again. “Yours, and none other's.”

Flushing for no reason he can name, Bilbo sighs. This whole business is insane. How he went from journeying around the Shire, to being dragged off by the ankle to the Blue Mountains by a dotty—if dashing—dwarf is beyond him. “How long is _the next little while_? And will I be free to leave once it's over?”

XXVII

“The next month, perhaps. And yes, if you find that after that time, you wish to go . . . then you may . . . though it is _my_ wish that you will choose to stay.” He smiles a little, but it's enough that the halfling looks surprised. “The Blue Mountains and their people can be very hospitable and welcoming, Mister Baggins. Doubt it not.”

“It is not your _hospitality_ I doubt!” Mister Baggins says pertly, crossing his arms. Then uncrossing them to lean back on them and laugh wryly at the starry sky. “And yet, am _I_ not the dottier one for—“

XXVIII

“For?”

Bilbo doesn't dare look back down from the sky. “Nothing.”

And nothing, it is. For a moment only, he'd imagined himself as one of the heroines from the novels he so loves, being swept out of their boring old lives, into the arms of a handsome stranger, and off into a _new_ life of adventure and romance. . . .

A silly idea, hardly worthy of even castigating himself over. Though the thought of himself in a dress is worth a silent chuckle.

“Alright. I'll go with you of my own volition. But no more tying me to the pony.”

XXIX

Thorin risks a glance at the halfling, and finds a wry smile aimed at him.

“You'll . . . come with me freely?” he asks, not entirely certain the halfling's consent—or lack thereof—would've stopped him. Not after three days of being immersed in that intensifying autumn-musk scent.

Mister Baggins nods once. “For the month only, though. I have a life in Hobbiton I must be getting back to.”

“Of course, of course,” Thorin is quick to say, though he hopes. . . .

“I've never been around dwarves, before. Except for their tendency to kidnap hobbits, I know next to nothing about them.”

XXX

Master Thorin actually smiles at this joke. Just a little one, but a smile, nonetheless. It warms Bilbo.

“You could've just asked me, in the first place,” Bilbo goes on mildly. “I might very well have said yes. I've been feeling a bit . . . restless lately, anyway. Wanting to travel before settling down, I suppose. Though I should have liked to stop at Bag End to pick up some things before leaving. . . .”

“I will provide you with whatever your heart desires, if you'll but say the word,” Master Thorin says quietly, and Bilbo gazes at him with widening, wondering eyes.

XXXI

“It's, er, time for you to rest,” Thorin says gruffly, standing and going over to the ponies. He unpacks the bedroll and tosses it at Mister Baggins, who fumbles it.

“What about you?” he asks, watching as Thorin takes a seat again, as far as he can get and still be within range of the fire's light.

Thinking of the way his blood's been racing for the past three days, he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried. And who knows what his dreams would drive him to do once he awoke?

“I'll take first watch.”

XXXII

_. . . there are hands all over his body, and he's _wanted_ . . . so badly that it turns his lover into to a beast. He can feel hot, hard flesh all over his body, pressing against him, demanding of him. He can taste-smell the salt-musk of his lover's skin, feel his lover's weight pinning him, pushing his legs back and up as something hot, thick, and urgent pushes its way deep inside of him. Each thrust batters something within him that makes him cry out and arch his back._

_He pumps out his release, his lover's name on his lips. . . ._

XXXIII

Thorin watches the halfling toss and turn in the throes of his dream.

The scent of him has intensified beyond what Thorin had thought he could bear. It's colored the air like a perfume.

The halfling rolls onto his back, his legs spread wide as he pumps his hips in the air before flopping back to Thorin's bedroll, mumbling . . . something or other.

Sighing, Thorin runs his hand up his thigh, to his groin. He's hard enough to pound nails, and thanks to the extravagantly aroused scent the halfling is still pouring out, starting to knot. Painfully.

This is _not_ good.

XXXIV

Bilbo wakes up after dawn feeling both better rested and even more restless than ever.

He also feels . . . _sticky_. . . .

 _Oh, dear, please tell me I_ didn't, he thinks, horrified, bolting up and looking around. The ponies are still there, but Thorin's nowhere to be seen. So Bilbo puts a hand to his trousers and—yes, he _did_.

And _oh_ , he wonders if he'd . . . made noise or had in some other way let on what he was dreaming about, and that's why Thorin disappeared. To give him time to . . . clean up. . . .

Mortified, Bilbo buries his face in his hands and groans.

XXXV

Thorin staggers away from the river, dressed once more, soaking wet hair hanging in his face.

He's been submerged in the cold waters of the Baranduin since the sun began to rise, trying to will away, the almost agonizing erection that's plaguing him.

It's . . . worked, more or less. The knotting, at least, has gone down, and the erection is merely painful, once more, instead of agonizing.

And walking, at least, is somewhat easier.

Nonetheless, as he approaches camp, a goodly walk distant, he wonders what he'll tell the halfling about his absence, and failure to wake him for second watch.

XXXVI

When Thorin— _Master_ Thorin . . . Bilbo's been having a time remembering to add the _Master_ since he woke, and he doesn't want to even think about what _that_ means—returns to camp, Bilbo has breakfast going.

“Hullo!” he says brightly, then _really_ takes a look at Thorin. Then he's hobbling over to him, brushing the wet hair out of his face and cupping Thorin's face in his hand. “Are you alright? You look terrible—like you fell in the river!”

Thorin reaches up with shaking fingers and removes Bilbo's hand.

“Is bathing something our people do not have in common, Mister Hobbit?”

XXXVII

When Mister Baggins takes a step back, looking rather hurt, Thorin immediately misses the warmth of his nearness, and the touch of his hand. But thinking about that only makes his . . . condition . . . worse.

So he stalks past the halfing, sees breakfast—which he can barely smell over the scent of the hobbit's nearing season—sitting on his side of the fire, and he feels awful for being the cause of that hurt look.

And, despite the kindness of the act, the last thing Thorin wants to do is eat.

He needs to get them both to the mountains before the _heat_ really settles in.

XXXVIII

Bilbo quickly eats—both breakfasts, as he's _ravenous_ , for some reason—while Thorin (Bilbo's quite given up on the _Master_ ) loads up the ponies.

Then, without saying a word or making eye contact, they're saddling up and wending their way West.

With the exception of a brief halt for a cold lunch, they ride without stopping from just after dawn till just before it gets too dark to see.

Tired and sore, Bilbo is surprised when they stop. More so when Thorin lifts him off the pony. He avoids Bilbo's gaze, putting him down quickly before stalking off South, toward the river.

XXXIX

That night, whatever the halfling dreams of, he dreams _quietly_.

Small comfort that is to Thorin, who's fighting the fire in his blood, and the scent that teases and tempts him no matter how far away he sits.

The urge to take himself in hand is a powerful one, but one he must resist, because it won't end there. It won't end till he has the halfling on his stomach, making those lovely, wee cries and moans he'd made the night before, as Thorin' takes him repeatedly, and finally locks their bodies together—

Thorin sighs, and thinks of . . . other things.

XXXX

When Bilbo wakes the next morning, it's to Thorin shaking his shoulder.

“Let's be on our way,” the dwarf says. Bilbo sits up, bleary and still half asleep.

“But . . . breakfast—“ he yawns.

“If we press on, we'll camp in the shadow of the Blue Mountains tonight.” Thorin holds out his hand, and Bilbo yawns again before taking it. He's pulled to his feet quickly. Thorin then begins rolling up the bedroll.

Bilbo stumbles toward his pony and leans against him, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

By the time he's done rubbing, Thorin's already mounted and is riding west.

XXXXI

Thorin halts the ponies that evening and dismounts to find the halfling asleep in the saddle.

Counting himself as lucky that Mister Baggins didn't fall and break his neck, Thorin carefully lifts the halfling from the saddle. He stirs enough to mutter to himself, but otherwise continues slumbering.

So Thorin takes the opportunity to gaze upon his erstwhile guest. . . .

He's, simply put, the loveliest thing Thorin's ever beheld, and Thorin has clear memories of the Arkenstone.

He's moved, by an instinct that has almost nothing to do with the erection that's been tormenting him, to press his lips to the halfling's.

XXXXII

When Bilbo opens his eyes, he's laying in front of a fire, on Thorin's bedroll. Thorin is tending a pot of what smells like stew and smiling absently into the flames. Bilbo sits up, stretching and yawning. Thorin glances at him, still smiling.

“You're awake just in time for supper,” he says, and Bilbo smiles shyly, wondering if the mercurial mood that has seemed to overtake his new friend for the past two days is finally . . . dissipating.

It's only later, when the moon has risen, that Bilbo thinks he knows why.

They're in the shadow of the Blue Mountains.

XXXXIII

Thorin passes the night easily, his body at last too tired to maintain much of an erection.

He hasn't slept in a week.

And he likely _won't_ be able to sleep till he's somewhere he considers safe.

Till he's _home_ , with his halfling. . . .

It's at that moment he wonders if Bilbo Baggins even knows what he is . . . knows that he's coming into his first breeding season. He certainly doesn't _act_ like someone who knows.

The idea of having to explain to the halfling what he is—what they _both_ are—is a thought that plagues Thorin for the rest of the night.

XXXXIV

Bilbo awakens when dawn's roseate light touches his face.

Thorin kneels at his side, staring at him with the strangest look on his saturnine features. Then he clears his throat and stands.

“I was about to awaken you,” he claims. “If we ride now, we can be at the way-station by noon.”

Bilbo frowns but nods, accepting Thorin's hand. The dwarf pulls him up and close. Bilbo can make out the midnight blue of his eyes, and wonder at the strange intensity of them. . . .

Then Thorin's letting go and walking away before Bilbo can sort himself out. As always.

XXXXV

Thorin gets a second wind from last night's reprieve, only for the erection to come back, worse than ever.

It makes riding a bitch, that's for certain.

“Tell me, Mister Baggins,” Thorin begins, meaning to broach the subject of the halfling's approaching heat. But then he makes the mistake of looking over into those innocent, lovely, attentive eyes.

“Yes, Th—Master Thorin?” Mister Baggins says patiently. Thorin tears his gaze away—fixes it on the mountains ahead.

 _How_ , he wonders, suddenly feeling helpless and useless, _am I to broach such a subject with him, if his parents did not?_

XXXXVI

Bilbo waits for Thorin to finish, but Thorin seems unwilling to, gazing, instead, at the looming mountains.

He senses that whatever the subject, it's important. Maybe distasteful, as well, if it pains Thorin so much just to bring it up. But _important_.

He nudges his pony— _Alan_ , as he thinks of it—closer to Thorin's, and the dwarf looks at him, surprised and apprehensive.

“I sense some . . . gulf opening between us, and that you would close this gulf. But to do so, you must broach a subject you find, perhaps, awkward?” Bilbo says tentatively, reluctantly, but firmly.

Thorin sighs and nods.

XXXXVII

“I would speak of this matter and have there be no secrets between us,” Thorin says, staring steadily at the mountains from which he draws his strength. “I would tell you all that's on my mind and in my heart, and have you hear me with an open mind and heart, in turn.

“But I would beg of you that we wait to speak—till the way-station, only,” Thorin adds, when he senses Mister Baggins about to object. He glances over at the halfling, sighing once more. “Till the way the way-station.”

“The way-station,” the halfling agrees finally.

XXXXVIII

The “way-station” is more than that—more than a mere outbuilding with supplies.

It's situated near a narrow mountain stream that runs through the foothills, and is, in size, more like a small cabin. It _does_ have a small outbuilding connected to the side of it with stores of dried meat and jars of vegetables, and even extra furs for sleeping under.

There's a small table and two chairs in the center of the cabin, and a bed in the far left corner of the lone room.

The rest of the building is dominated by a huge fireplace and mantle.

XXXXIX

Thorin watches Mister Baggins look around the cabin.

“Will we be staying here for the night?” he asks, blushing prettily, but for no reason Thorin can readily guess at.

“If you like,” he replies, and is surprised to find that he means it. This way-station is, for all its sparsity and austerity . . . part of his home. “Though we are but half a day's ride from our destination.”

“Yes, and if at all possible, I'd like to arrive relatively rested and clean.” Smiling wryly, Mister Baggins nods at the open door. “I call first dip in that stream.”

XXXXX

Bilbo bathes quickly—the stream is _cold_ enough to steal his breath—with his washcloth and a chunk of good brown soap. And despite the iciness of the stream, feels better for it.

When he's done, he dries off with one of the furs from the storage shed and hustles into his other change of clothing. Which feels, quite unaccountably, scratchy against his skin.

The fur had felt much nicer, anyway.

By the time he gets back to the way-station, Thorin's tending a stew that smells heavenly.

The homeyness of the scene pushes the imminent discussion to the back of his mind.

 

Continued in [In The Shadow of The Blue Mountains](http://users.livejournal.com/_beetle_/220246.html)  



	2. In The Shadow of the Blue Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: Dwarves and Hobbits are cross fertile, though hobbits do not know that because they are a race of Omegas, with no Alphas or Betas. Since it is dwarven custom to keep Omegas deep within their mountains where it is safe few could escape past Smaug when the dragon came to Erebor. Thorin, thusly, never had much hope of mating. Then he stumbles across an early-thirties Bilbo Baggins on one of his wanderings up near Bree, across the Brandywine. Smelling a fertile Omega, he kidnaps Bilbo and takes him to the Blue Mountains. Give me some confused!Bilbo who doesn't understand why he's been kidnapped by a dwarf who is being growly but NICE about it, and has no idea of the reason why! And Thorin patiently waiting for Bilbo's heat to start in the mountains so he can claim him! +100 for Bilbo falling for Thorin and becoming a willing enough and happy houseguest with no idea sex is in the making until it happens and then, reluctantly, agreeing to it. +1000 For hobbits having a heat that leaves them uncomfortable and sensitive rather than desperate for sex. PLUS MY SOUL for knotting with Bilbo not knowing what it is that's going up his arse, but Thorin holding him still and reassuring him through his panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU Set pre-The Hobbit. Bilbo is a mere thirty-three and his parents are dead earlier than in the book. Oh, and A/O, so there's gonna be some slightly graphic descriptions of borderline dub-con sex. ::snorts:: Look who I'm warning.

Disclaimer: I didn't steal nothing from no one.

 

Thorin looks up as the halfling comes back into the way-station.

He looks pale and lovely, his face and hair shining in the firelight. He's wearing different clothes—cleaner ones—that won't carry his scent like the others had.

His scent. . . .

It's been washed away.

Dropping the spoon in the pot, Thorin approaches the halfling, nostrils flaring. Mister Baggins takes a step back. And another. And another one that takes him back out the door—or would, if Thorin hadn't taken him by the arms and hauled him in close.

“Mister Baggins—“ he begins, alarmed and sniffing for the scent of autumn leaves and cinnamon, somewhere underneath the scents of soap and clean hobbit.

Somewhere, underneath those scents . . . a _tickle_ of autumn. . . .

“Bilbo,” Mister Baggins says, frowning. But he doesn't try to escape Thorin's grasp. “Call me Bilbo.”

“ _Bilbo_ . . . I—“ Thorin shakes his head and looks down at the floor between them. At the halfling's—at _Bilbo_ 's silly, fuzzy feet. He wonders, briefly, what he's meant to say:

_I can barely smell you anymore, your scent is all but disappeared, and I'm worried that means that you're no longer approaching your heat, and thus I no longer have a chance of winning you. . . ._

But then Thorin realizes that if he's relying on the fact that they'll be drawn to each other by nothing more than the desire to breed, he's already lost.

And that brings to mind the discussion they need to have before too long. And certainly before Bilbo gets further into the mountains, trailing that scent for every male dwarf to be drawn to.

No, Thorin needs to tell Bilbo what he is _now_ , then let him decide whether he wants to risk going into the mountains, or run off home, like any sensible person would.

“Thorin? Thorin?” Bilbo is saying, looking worriedly up into Thorin's eyes, and Thorin, driven by the heat in his own blood—as well as the yearning to know what it would be like, just this once, to taste those sweet, soft lips while Bilbo is _awake_ —pulls Bilbo closer and leans down, meaning to kiss him, but instead, he winds up nuzzling the halfling's neck. At the junction of jaw and ear.

“ _Thorin_ —“ Bilbo says, his voice choked as Thorin inhales, hoping for teasers at least of that perfect scent. And get them, he does. Laughing in relief, he hugs the halfling to him—careful to make sure there's only contact _above_ the waist.

“I couldn't smell your scent, anymore,” he breathes, and Bilbo stiffens.

“Well, I should hope _not_. I just took the world's coldest bath to get rid of my, ahem, scent!” Then he relaxes in Thorin's arms, hugging him back briefly. “Now _you_ need to do the same. Go on,” he urges, patting Thorin's back before letting go. Thorin reluctantly does the same, not wanting to leave the haven of Bilbo's arms or the slight resurgence of his scent. “Go take your bath and I'll keep an eye on the stew.”

Thorin nods and straightens up. As he does so, Bilbo's eyes meet his own, mirthful and lovely, and Thorin can no longer help it. He steals a kiss.

*

Bilbo's eyes widen as Thorin's lips, slightly chapped, make contact with his own, pressing them gently before pulling away.

For a moment, they stare into each other's eyes, Bilbo's hand flown to his face, fingers resting at his tingling lips.

“Oh,” he says softly, and Thorin smiles wryly, but wearily. He reaches up to brush his own fingers across Bilbo's cheek.

“So smooth,” he murmurs wonderingly. “Are you this smooth all over?”

Blushing, Bilbo answers. “Pretty much. Though no one's ever wanted to know, before now.”

“More fool, them,” Thorin says disdainfully. Then he leans in again—slowly, this time, so Bilbo can move away, if he wants—and captures Bilbo's lips with his own, sucking at them as if they're candy.

Bilbo, who's been kissed a few times by girls who never really became more than friends (and now, it's starting to make sense why), moans as Thorin's mouth opens and his tongue darts out to part Bilbo's lips.

It's never quite gone this far with the Hobbiton girls Bilbo's kissed. Never before has he felt another tongue stroke so strongly into his mouth— _possessing_ it, and guiding his own tongue in a dance as natural as it is amazing. It's as if a whole new world has been opened for him, and it begins and ends in Thorin's arms.

Bilbo hesitantly wraps his own arms around Thorin's waist, and moves closer, till he can feel Thorin's hard body flush against his own, and—harder in some places than others.

All of a sudden, Bilbo remembers the dream he'd had the other night . . . the one in which he'd had an unseen lover, who'd pinned him and _penetrated_ him. He remembers that dream and understands it, now. Understands exactly what his body needs—has _been needing_ for an eternity, it feels like.

It's been needing exactly this: Thorin's arms around him, and Thorin's kiss, and Thorin's _cock_ , pressed so urgently against his stomach—

No, not against his stomach. . . .

Thorin's crushing Bilbo tight against him, groaning as if he's in pain, and something in Bilbo understands that pain—understands that he's the one who can make it stop.

So he maneuvers them back into the way-station, kicking the door shut behind them.

*

Thorin notes the door shutting only absently.

He's too busy kissing the sweetness from Bilbo's lips and grinding himself against the warm, flat plane of Bilbo's stomach to notice much else. One thing he _does_ notice, importantly, is the full return of that scent—more than return. It's blossomed into something a thousand times more powerful than it was before—so strong and intense Thorin expects that half the mountain will be breaking down the way-station door at any second.

_He's in full heat, now_ , Thorin realizes, breaking the kiss to look into Bilbo's eyes. They're dilated and hazy with ardor. 

“Bilbo,” he says, his voice rough and hoarse. “Bilbo, listen to me: what you're feeling now is perfectly natural—“

“I know,” Bilbo says, standing on his toes to kiss Thorin again. “You're feeling it, too, aren't you? I mean . . . different, but sort of the same, too, right?”

“Yes,” Thorin sighs into the next kiss even as Bilbo laughs into it.

“I've never felt anything like this before,” he murmurs. “It's _lovely_.”

Thorin smiles a little. “I've never heard it described thus, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Are you going make love to me, now?” Bilbo asks hopefully, wide-eyed and yearning. _Trusting_.

Suddenly, Thorin is quite angry with himself, for letting it get this far. For letting himself get so wrapped up in the halfling that he's _this_ close to simply taking the lad, honor and goodness be damned.

“No,” he grits out from between clenched teeth. Bilbo's hazy eyes clear just a little and the halfling frowns.

“I don't under—ow, Thorin, you're hurting me!” he complains as Thorin grabs his arms again, squeezing them tighter than anyone would like. Tight enough to leave bracelets of bruises on such fair, smooth skin.

“No, I will _not_ be making love to you, Mister Baggins,” Thorin says without inflection. “What I _will_ be doing is buggering you till you beg me to stop. And I won't. I won't be _able_ to. I'll fuck that virgin arse of yours till you can't walk, let alone ride into the mountains, and by the time I'm done, you'll be pregnant with my child and we'll be bound together for life. And every time you go into heat . . . you'll come to _me_ , no matter how much you hate me for what your life has become. You will come to me to be _fucked_. To be _bred_ , like a mare.”

Bilbo's eyes, which had still been hazy before, despite Thorin clamping down on his arms, are now bright and present, shining with tears.

“P-pregnant? I don't understand—“

“What's not to understand?” Thorin smiles as coldly as he can. “You're in heat, right now. You want me because I'm able to breed you. Your body is ready to bear children and _my_ body just happens to be the fastest way to do that. Nothing more.”

*

Bilbo shakes his head, ignoring the tears that roll down his cheeks as Thorin's words sink in.

“This is some sort of awful joke, isn't it? I'm male, I can't become pregnant,” he says incredulously, looking up into Thorin's stony face and cold eyes.

“Would you care to test that theory?” the dwarf demands, sneering, and Bilbo blushes and wipes his eyes.

“Why are you being so cruel to me, Thorin? What have I done to deserve your cruelty?” he asks, more tears running down his face than he can catch. For a moment, Thorin's expression wavers and his grip on Bilbo's arms eases some.

Then he's letting go entirely, and turning away, toward the fire, one hand gone up to cover his mouth.

“You should go home. Back to your Shire, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin's shoulders sag wearily, and he runs his hand back through his sable-and-silver hair. “Go home,” he says again, sounding disgusted . . . but Bilbo is starting to doubt that this disdain and disgust is directed at him anymore. If ever it was.

Wiping his face with his sleeve, Bilbo reaches out and reluctantly lays a hand on Thorin's shoulder, and Thorin flinches away.

“You can take a pony, if you want. Take two—take all three, just . . . go.”

Bilbo shakes his head, though Thorin can't see it. “No.”

“ _Go_ , Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo squares his shoulders and lays his hand on Thorin's shoulder again. This time, the dwarf doesn't flinch away. “I won't.”

“Do you have,” Thorin begins, laughing bitterly, “any idea what I'll do to you if you stay? What you'll be consigning yourself to by not going _now_.” He turns to face Bilbo again and he looks tired, haggard, and lost. Bilbo's heart goes out to him, despite what's been said over the past few minutes.

His hand slides up from Thorin's shoulder, to his neck, thence to his face. Thorin's beard is soft and almost downy against Bilbo's palm, and he leans into Bilbo's touch like a flower toward the sun, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Please, go,” he breathes, though without any real command to it, and Bilbo steps closer, till he's in Thorin's space, but their bodies aren't quite touching. He stands on tiptoe again and kisses the corner of Thorin's mouth. But Thorin quickly turns his head just enough that they're kissing again, uncoordinated and urgently, desperate and breathlessly.

“You are beautiful,” Thorin breaks the kiss to say, and his voice sounds choked and strange. “I would lay you down on a soft bed, with silken sheets and make love to you, the way you want, if I could. But I cannot.”

“ _Why_?” Bilbo asks quietly, searching Thorin's eyes. Thorin sighs.

“Everything I said to you before, crudely put though it was, was true. You're in heat, and as a result, _I'm_ in heat—have been for days, now. I've fought it and fought it, but I can't fight it anymore. And that's why, unless you wish to wind up bereft of your innocence many times over and carrying my child, you _will_ go.”

Bilbo's thumb brushes Thorin's strong cheekbone. “And what will happen to you, if I go?”

Thorin's smile is mirthless and small. “I'll go through four or five days of sheer hell, but I'll survive. And so will you.”

*

Bilbo stares up into Thorin's eyes, his own wide and unguarded.

“That's assuming I go.”

Thorin sighs. “Bilbo—“

“You can't _force_ me to go.” Bilbo scowls and wraps his arms around Thorin's neck. When Thorin sighs again, and wraps his own around Bilbo's waist, the halfling smiles triumphantly, dazzlingly. “You _won't_ force me to go.”

Thorin laughs, more an ironic bark than genuine expression of joy. “I'm not _mad_. I won't _make_ you leave this place when I want nothing more than for you to stay.”

The halfling's smile is bright enough to rival the noon sun shining down on the foothills. Thorin wants to return it. To reassure Bilbo and himself that everything will be alright—will turn out for the best . . . but he cannot. All he can do is offer his caveat one last time.

“I warned you, about staying,” he says softly, one hand fanning out over the curve of the halfling's arse. He pulls Bilbo against him hard, and leans down till their foreheads are touching. “I _warned_ you what would happen.”

“Yes, you did,” Bilbo breathes, gazing intently into Thorin's eyes. “That you would ravish me and steal my innocence.”

“And impregnate you.”

Bilbo smiles a little. “I don't know that I believe _that_ , but I've been duly warned. Any pregnancy that results from us laying together I'll accept as the price I pay for having you,” he quips.

Thorin growls. “You are _not_ a woman. When your time comes, they'll have to cut the child out of you. It will be more painful than you can imagine. And it may be fatal.”

That smile fades. “You really believe what you're saying, don't you? That you'll get me pregnant?” Bilbo frowns. “But even so, even if it's all true, Thorin, it's too late to back out now . . . can't you feel it?”

And so saying, he steps back out of Thorin's arms. Thorin already can barely let go of Bilbo . . . but he does, some small, nearly drowned-out part of him hoping the halfling will leave.

But he doesn't. Instead, he takes Thorin's hand and tugs him toward the bed.

Willing to martyr himself to his own lust—and Bilbo's—Thorin follows.

*

When they reach the bed, Bilbo turns to look at Thorin. His eyes are wide and a little scared. But he swallows, tilting his head up despite his furious blush, and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

He barely has the second button undone—the first one he's popped right off the fabric—before Thorin's brushing his fingers away. “Here, let me.”

Bilbo swallows again, and nods, his hands falling away. As Thorin quickly, carefully reveals more of him, his blush deepens.

When the shirt is opened, Thorin pushes it down Bilbo's shoulders, leaning in to kiss the right one. Bilbo moans, and the shirt falls to the floor.

“My beautiful halfling,” Thorin murmurs, running his finger down the center of Bilbo's mostly hairless chest, to the waist of his trousers. “So lovely.”

Bilbo, feeling greatly daring, reaches out and unbuttons Thorin's shirt. It's much easier than his own, for some reason, and the chest it reveals is broader, more muscular, and hairier than any Bilbo's ever seen. He runs his hands down Thorin's chest and up again, and gets pulled against it and kissed hard. This kiss is possessive and thorough, nothing gentle about it, all teeth and tongue.

Shortly, however, Bilbo finds himself being released, only to be pushed backward. He lands on the bed with an _oof_ , then gazes up at Thorin, who's staring down at him inscrutably.

Then, Thorin's unbuttoning his trousers, freeing the bulge behind it inch by erect inch. Eyes widening again, Bilbo sits up on his elbows, licking his lips as Thorin's cock—angry-red, hard, seemingly _massive_ —is revealed.

_Yes!_ Bilbo's entire being choruses because it _is_ like a revelation. _This_ —this moment, this place, this dwarf, _this_ —is what he's meant for. Everything in his entire life prior has been leading up to _this_.

Bilbo doesn't even realize he's touching himself until he notes where Thorin's gaze is lingering. He watches hungrily as Bilbo teases and touches himself through trousers that have developed a wet-spot.

“Take those off,” Thorin commands, before Bilbo can become self-conscious about what he's doing. Then Thorin is kicking off his own boots and stepping out of his trousers. He's lean about the waist and legs, and knobby about the knees, something which makes Bilbo smile.

But he hops to, skinning down his trousers and kicking them off, blushing again as Thorin stares once more.

“I—I know I'm not much to look at,” Bilbo stammers, embarassed. “Not compared to you.”

“You are . . . lovelier than I expected. And I expected much.” Thorin smiles a little and steps toward the bed. Bilbo, thinking to give the dwarf room, scoots backward till his back hits the wall, swallowing as Thorin kneels on the bed, his eyes never leaving Bilbo's smaller—shaking—frame.

“I won't hurt you,” Thorin says gently, though his voice is slightly strained, as if it's costing him just to speak. “I mean, this _will_ hurt, at first, but I promise you, that will pass.”

Bilbo nods. “I've heard stories . . . of what two males can get up to. I know the mechanics of what we're about to do. I've just . . . never actually _done_ it,” he admits, embarrassed again, and looking down at his own naked knees.

Thorin reaches out and tilts Bilbo's chin up, till their gazes meet.

“You were waiting for now. For this. For _me_ ,” Thorin says certainly, echoing Bilbo's previous thoughts. Bilbo shivers.

“Yes,” he says, and apparently that's the right thing to say, for Thorin is, in moments, on him, bearing him down to the bed and kissing him with one of those hard, possessive kisses. His cock pushes against Bilbo's, sliding alongside it, creating friction that nearly drives Bilbo mad with wanting _more_. His arms, wrapped around Thorin's neck, tighten.

“Thorin,” he moans, and instinctively spreads his legs as wide as he can. Thorin lays between them, and in very short order, his cock is sliding down past Bilbo's bollocks, past the small, sensitized strip of skin behind them, and further back.

Bilbo gasps, as the tip of Thorin's cock brushes his opening, and clutches at the dwarf even tighter. “Yes, please. _Please_ ,” he whispers into the kiss, surrendering himself completely to the heat in his blood, and the heat of the dwarf who now possesses him.

*

Thorin is officially beyond the point of no return.

In fact, if asked if he could stop now . . . he wouldn't even be able to comprehend the question.

He kisses his halfling, pinning him to the bed with his heavier, sturdier body, his cock seeking the extravagant heat leading to Bilbo's core . . . but at the last moment, Thorin holds back.

“Yes, please. _Please_ ,” is whispered on his lips. Bilbo is arching up against him, trying to get closer than even skin-to-skin contact will allow, and Thorin knows that this is _it_. There's no going back: Bilbo Baggins will be his mate, the bearer of his children, for now and for-ever, a fact that will only be cemented by the act they're about to perform.

Thorin sits up, panting, and Bilbo opens wide, once more hazy eyes.

“What—“ he begins, and Thorin grins, flipping the halfling onto his stomach easily. Bilbo makes a squawking noise that, under any other circumstances would be funny. But now, as with everything else about Bilbo Baggins, it simply makes Thorin harder.

He once more pins Bilbo to the bed before he can turn back over, spreading himself atop the halfling like a blanket.

“It will be easier like this,” he murmurs in Bilbo's pointed ear, kissing it tenderly. Bilbo shivers and turns his head toward Thorin.

“Alright,” he says, and: “I do wish I could see you, though.”

“There'll be time for that when we're not in heat. Later, when we're in the Blue Mountains, in my home, and I have time to make love to you like you deserve. On a soft bed with silken sheets.”

Bilbo chuckles wryly. “I don't need all that claptrap . . . I just need _you_.”

Thorin closes his eyes for a moment, burying his face in Bilbo's hair, inhaling that autumn-cinnamon-musk scent—heavier, now, on the musk—and sighs.

“I will make you my consort,” he says quietly, in Khuzdul. “Your sons will be my heirs.”

“What was that?”

Thorin shakes his head. “Nothing.” He smiles and insinuates a hand between his body and Bilbo's. A few seconds later, Bilbo's gasping again as Thorin's finger breaches the first, tight ring of muscle at his entrance.

As if further proof were needed that Bilbo had reached the apex of his season, Thorin's finger slides easily into the already-slick channel of Bilbo's body and finding the tiny, protruding sweet-spot is a matter of moments. Bilbo cries out, high and breathless.

Thorin brushes that spot, till Bilbo's writhing on the bed and clenching tight around Thorin's finger. Then he withdraws his finger, quickly adding a second one before pushing back in.

“Oh, _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo moans, his voice ragged and torn between pain and pleasure as Thorin scissors his fingers to stretch him, making sure to brush that spot as often as he can.

By the time Thorin is in deep with three fingers, Bilbo's barely coherent, only the occasional _please_ and attempt at Thorin's name falling from his kiss-swollen lips. Thorin, himself, is almost beyond cogent thought. It's pure instinct that's running him, now. He withdraws his fingers slowly, carefully, and balances himself on his knees and one hand, while the other hand strokes his angry, weeping cock. Then that hand settles on Bilbo's arse—Bilbo takes that as his cue to spread his legs even wider, baring himself for Thorin's eyes.

And _only ever_ for Thorin's eyes, Thorin decides in that moment.

Leaning down to kiss Bilbo's shoulder again, Thorin lines himself up, the tip of his cock paused right at Bilbo's entrance. . . .

Then he's making the first, shallow thrust _in_.

*

It _hurts_

Oh, it feels good, too—like he's being slowly, but surely completed . . . as if the entire world is being made right by this one act—but it _hurts_ , too.

Thorin is every bit as massive as he'd looked, both thick and long, and squirm though Bilbo does, there's really no escaping a cock that huge. Not when it feels like it's about to split him in two.

“ _Oh, Bilbo_ ,” Thorin is groaning in his low, resonant voice as he drives inexorably forward, deeper into Bilbo's body, saying something in in dwarvish, again, one hand on Bilbo's hip tight enough to bruise. . . .

Eventually, by some miracle, he's finally seated within Bilbo as far as possible.

Both of them pause for breath: Bilbo panting and sweating as his body tries to accommodate the large intruder, Thorin's own breath coming harsh and fast. . . .

And then, Thorin takes it into his head to pull out . . . and he takes what feels like Bilbo's insides with him.

“Unh,” Bilbo grunts when Thorin's all the way out but for the very tip of his cock. Then he's wailing as Thorin drives himself forward again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually the haze of pain and shock recedes a little and, by another miracle, the head of Thorin's cock hits that spot inside of Bilbo that makes him light up like Gandalf the Grey's whizbangers.

“Right there! Right there!” he finds himself yelling, pushing back to meet each thrust, now. Thorin doesn't reply, but he starts swiveling his hips on every thrust, till Bilbo cries out again.

Then he keeps doing it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And Bilbo is really starting to get into the rhythm of it . . . the push and slide of it . . . the sweetness of surrendering his body for another's use . . . when something begins to happen:

He's pushed himself to his hands and knees with Thorin's help. Thorin now has both hands on Bilbo's hips and is pulling him back to meet each thrust. And those thrusts, after a while, start to lose rhythm. They become just random slammings forward of his hips that luckily hit Bilbo's spot more often than they don't.

Behind Bilbo, Thorin's panting and muttering in dwarvish again, barely audible over the slick, obscene sounds of flesh smacking wetly against flesh.

That's when the _something_ begins to happen. When it feels as if Thorin's cock is . . . growing wider . . . but only near the base. At first Bilbo is certain he's imagining things, but soon, the . . .growth makes each thrust in and pull out hurt again, until he's pleading with Thorin to _stop_.

“Can't . . . too close,” Thorin grunts, thrusting in one time, the growth at the base of his cock making it agonizing as it forces its way inside Bilbo. Bilbo is, in fact, near tears by this point, expecting Thorin to immediately pull back out, which will hurt even more. But Thorin shudders, fills him with copious amounts of liquid heat, then tries to push in deeper, farther than he already is. Suddenly Bilbo's body seems to . . . clench tightly, spasmodically, around that growth—it feels like a large knot, more than anything—in effect, trapping Thorin within his body.

Just as Bilbo starts to panic, to try and pull himself off his lover's cock—though even the slightest move in _that_ direction hurts more than Bilbo can bear—Thorin's hand slides up to his back, where it rubs soothingly.

“It's alright,” he pants, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's left shoulder, now. “This's supposed to happen. At least when we're in heat. The knot locks me insides of you so that . . . well, let's just say you're more likely to become pregnant with me locked inside of you for a few hours. ”

“A few—surely you're joking!” Bilbo exclaims, glancing over his shoulder. Thorin kisses his cheek, now, nuzzling it gently.

“I assure you, I'm not.” His hand slips around to Bilbo's front, rubbing his chest now, before drifting lower, and lower still, till it's wrapped loosely around Bilbo's own flagging erection. “But oh, the times we can have in a few hours. . . .”

“But—“

Thorin's thumb glides across the wet tip of Bilbo's cock and Bilbo shivers. So does Thorin, before going still once more. Inside him, Thorin's cock pulses and shoots more liquid heat into Bilbo even as he swivels his hips.

He brushes that spot inside Bilbo that makes him cry out—and cry out, he does—then batters it like the gates to a citadel, all the while keeping up his stroking, till Bilbo's eyes are squeezed shut and he's calling out hoarsely, his voice gone raw and ragged.

“Come for me, Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs in his ear. “My halfling, my consort . . . my love.”

“ _Oh_.” Bilbo's body explodes, like fireworks. " _Oh!_ "

*

Unbelievably tired, Thorin, fresh off his third climax, lowers them both to the bed carefully, rolling them onto their sides. He folds Bilbo into his arms and kisses his hair, his ear, his cheek—any part of the halfling he can reach.

He's still hard, still knotted in Bilbo's tight, clenching heat—and will be for a few hours yet. But there are ways he can make them both comfortable, for the time being.

And after a few such minutes of laying comfortably—at least Thorin hopes Bilbo's comfortable—Bilbo sighs.

“That was . . . incredible,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. Thorin kisses his lips softly, lingering there for the undimmed sweetness of them. “It hurt a bit more than I thought it would, but the rest . . . a hobbit could get used to that.”

This is said tentatively, and Thorin smiles, taking Bilbo's hand and linking their fingers. He yawns widely. “So could a dwarf.”

They lay in silence for a while, simply breathing, and listening to each other breathe. Finally, Bilbo says: “Tell me about the Blue Mountains, and the dwarves that live there.”

Thorin laughs. “That is . . . a long story. One without a happy ending. Yet,” he adds.

“Well, neither of us are going anywhere for the next few hours.” Bilbo looks over his shoulder again. “Or if you don't want to talk about that, talk about whatever you wish, just . . . let me hear your voice.”

Thorin smiles a little. “What do know you, then, of Durin the Deathless?”

“ _Who_?”

Thorin brings their linked hands to Bilbo's damp, sticky abdomen, and lets them rest there. “This babe will be the latest of his line.”

Bilbo stiffens in his arms. “I still think you're mistaken about the whole pregnancy-thing.”

Thorin tucks his face into the curve of Bilbo's neck and shoulder. “Time will tell,” is all he says. All he _need_ say. Then: 

“Durin the Deathless was the first of the seven fathers of the dwarves, created by Aule of the Valar. . . .”

Five Days Later. . . .

Bilbo steps—hobbles, really—into the sunshine, smiling to himself.

Across from the way-station, Thorin is loading up the ponies. For the first time in days, Bilbo's able to look at his lover without wanting to climb him like a tree, and vice versa.

It feels nice to, for once, simply appreciate Thorin's presence.

Bilbo closes the door behind himself and crosses the yard. Thorin looks up and smiles.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and Bilbo laughs.

“Not looking forward to riding, but otherwise, yes, I'm ready.” He goes into Thorin's open arms for a hug and a kiss. “Ready for the handsome stranger to whisk me off in his arms, into adventure.”

Thorin's brow furrows, but he's still smiling. “What on Earth are you talking about, my love?”

Bilbo laughs, enjoying the familiar, yet not _entirely_ familiar feel of being held by Thorin. “Nothing. Just silly hobbit prattle.”

“Ah . . . such as the time Jamie Grubb made you arm wrestle him over the last of the Gamgee Cider?” Thorin's eyebrows drift up and Bilbo blushes.

“Something like that.” He reaches up to brush Thorin's hair out of his face, wishing they _could_ have children. They'd have strong, handsome—smart, if Bilbo had his say—sons and daughters.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Thorin says softly, and Bilbo laughs again. “And don't fob me off with 'silly hobbit prattle.'”

“Just . . . wondering . . . if you've actually seen one of these male pregnancies you s-spoke of,” his blush deepening, Bilbo glances down that the collar of Thorin's shirt, then back up.

“I have seen such pregnancies, yes . . . but not since Erebor. . . .” Thorin's smile fades.

“Who's Erebor?”

Thorin shakes his head. “It's not a person, but the place my people lived for generations before we were forced to seek a new home here.” He pauses. “Back in Erebor, the birthrate was much higher. Not high, by the standards of men or of halflings, but higher. I, myself, was the result of a male pregnancy. So were my sister Dis, and my brother, Frerin, who has been dead these many years.”

Bilbo kisses Thorin tenderly. “I'm so sorry, love.”

Thorin shakes his head again and smiles sadly. “It was a long time ago. But yes, back in Erebor, I witnessed pregnant male dwarves.” Thorin pulls out of Bilbo's arms to kneel before him and kiss his shirt-covered abdomen. “And now, I will witness a pregnant male halfling. _My_ pregnant male halfling, carrying our first son.”

“How do you know this child, assuming it exists, is a boy?” Bilbo asks, playing along for the moment, running his fingers through Thorin's soft hair. Thorin looks up, that smile making a brilliant comeback.

“The first born of the line of Durin always are,” he says, his hand coming up to rub Bilbo's stomach. “Since time immemorial.”

“Wait—if you're descended from the line of the first king of the dwarves,” Bilbo says, frowning down at his lover as he makes a connection that had, apparently, been tickling the back of his mind. “Doesn't that make _you_ king of the dwarves, now?”

Thorin's smile fades again, but he nods. ”Unless my father, who has been gone many years, is found, yes.”

“Oh, Thorin—my king—“ Bilbo starts to bow, but Thorin stands and catches him before he can complete it, pulling Bilbo's arms around his neck and kissing him.

“To you, I am always and only _Thorin_ ,” he murmurs on Bilbo's lips.

Bilbo sighs. “Alright . . . _Thorin._ ”

They kiss again, and embrace, till behind them, the ponies start getting restless. Separating then with smiles, they climb into their saddles.

With one glance back at the way-station, Bilbo follows Thorin out of the foothills and into the Blue Mountains, where his new life awaits.

END


	3. A Blue Mountains Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: Dwarves and Hobbits are cross fertile, though hobbits do not know that because they are a race of Omegas, with no Alphas or Betas. Since it is dwarven custom to keep Omegas deep within their mountains where it is safe few could escape past Smaug when the dragon came to Erebor. Thorin, thusly, never had much hope of mating. Then he stumbles across an early-thirties Bilbo Baggins on one of his wanderings up near Bree, across the Brandywine. Smelling a fertile Omega, he kidnaps Bilbo and takes him to the Blue Mountains. Give me some confused!Bilbo who doesn't understand why he's been kidnapped by a dwarf who is being growly but NICE about it, and has no idea of the reason why! And Thorin patiently waiting for Bilbo's heat to start in the mountains so he can claim him! +100 for Bilbo falling for Thorin and becoming a willing enough and happy houseguest with no idea sex is in the making until it happens and then, reluctantly, agreeing to it. +1000 For hobbits having a heat that leaves them uncomfortable and sensitive rather than desperate for sex. PLUS MY SOUL for knotting with Bilbo not knowing what it is that's going up his arse, but Thorin holding him still and reassuring him through his panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/B/O

Disclaimer: It's all mine . . . or not.

“It's so chilly!”

Bilbo shivers and pulls furs borrowed from the way-station closer about him. His breath plumes thick and white from nose and mouth as his pony, Alan, walks certainly, sedately on. He knows he's getting close to his home—to Bilbo's new home—something that fills Bilbo with equal parts trepidation and excitement.

Ahead of him, Thorin nods and glances back, smiling a little. “It always is, in the mountains. Even in the height of summer, there's a chill here, of an evening. But _under_ the mountains, where we make our home, it's always warm and bright.”

Bilbo returns the smile and nudges Alan to walk a little faster, till he's apace with Thorin. The dwarf-king's eyes linger on him in such a way that Bilbo is almost immediately warmed by it, and by the memory of their days spent at the way-station.

“Will we get to the Door unto the Mountains tonight, do you think?”

“If we push hard and late, we should,” Thorin replies just as certain and sedate as Alan. “This path is a bit circuitous—I chose it for ease of riding, rather than speed—but we should reach the Door tonight. And you, my consort-to-be, will be welcomed and feted among my people. We will be married with as much haste as is seemly and as little pomp as we can get away with, and after that . . . silk sheets. . . .”

Reaching out to take Bilbo's hand, Thorin kisses it tenderly without breaking their gazes. Bilbo's pulse quickens and he blushes, swallowing. “That sounds _wonderful_ , Thorin.”

Thorin's smile, small and amused, makes a reappearance.

They ride on, holding hands for as long as the path allows them to ride abreast.

*

Bilbo's first glimpse of another dwarf comes late in the afternoon, when the shadows have grown long and the air sharp.

The dwarf is striding down the path toward them, all beard and armor and humongous ax, singing in dwarvish. When within hailing distance, he does so bluffly, calling: “Your majesty!”

Thorin nods and raises his hand. “Lar,” he calls back, halting his pony as the dwarf draws even with them. Bilbo does the same. Lar bows to Thorin, then to Bilbo, his bright blue eyes ticking back and forth between them. Bilbo attempts a bow, nearly bonks his face on the back of Alan's head, then settles for a wave.

Thorin, observing this, smiles and gestures at Bilbo. “Lar, this is my consort-to-be, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo, this Lar, one of the many guards that keep safe the Door Unto the Mountain.”

Nodding respectfully, Bilbo holds out his hand for shaking. It's shortly enveloped in a hand as rough as it is large.

“Very nice to meet you, Lar.”

“And it is my great good honor to meet _you_ , your highness,” Lar says, his nostrils twitching as he stares at Bilbo curiously. Bilbo, remembering what Thorin had said about him having a scent that would announce him as a _fertile_ —a notion Bilbo had utterly dismissed, though silently and to himself—to many male dwarves, turns red when Lar blinks, then looks him over more carefully.

But then Lar is letting go of his hand . . . yet still staring at him as if enrapt. “I've never seen a halfling before, your highness—you _are_ a halfling, are you not?”

“I am. From Hobbiton, several days ride east of here.”

Lar smiles wistfully. “If I may ask . . . are there any more like you, in Hobbiton?”

“Oh, my, yes.” Bilbo laughs, thinking the question a tad strange. Why would there only be _one_ hobbit? And in this part of the world? “And more in the whole of the Shire, besides.”

“Well. That's decided where _I'm_ going on my next holiday.” Lar bows again, deeply, before turning to Thorin, who's been watching the exchange with thoughtful bemusement. “Shall I send an alert to the mountain that you've returned, my king?”

“That _we've_ returned, and yes. And that a feast is to be prepared to welcome my consort-to-be. I have promised him much of Blue Mountains' hospitality.” Thorin reaches out and takes Bilbo's hand again, squeezing it. His eyes are dancing with excitement. “Our people will be overjoyed to meet you, my love . . . you will give them, just as you've given me, hope for the future.”

Surprised and a little wary, Bilbo blinks. “Hope? _Me_? How so?”

But Thorin merely kisses his hand again. “You and what you represent are nothing less than a gift from Durin.”

Blushing, Bilbo cups Thorin's face in his hand, his thumb brushing one high cheekbone fondly. “And you, my love are extremely cryptic. What's all this about me representing hope and gifts from Durin?”

Thorin smiles and sidles his pony closer, his free hand going to Bilbo's stomach. “This child will be the first of a new generation of dwarves. A generation we'd long given up hope of ever seeing.”

Bilbo shakes his head, but sadly, and in sudden understanding. “Thorin, love—I know you think you've somehow got me pregnant, but you must realize that I am male, and thus unable to conceive _or_ bear children!“

“Yes, so you've said.” Thorin leans in closer for a kiss that quite literally leaves Bilbo breathless. “But soon enough, you'll see that you _are_ able.”

Sighing, Bilbo gazes into Thorin's dark blue eyes and shakes his head. “I don't wish to disappoint you, love, but I fear I must.”

“You won't. You never could.”

And there seems to be nothing to say to that—nothing that hasn't already been said in the past five days in their many talks about this subject. Bilbo has only just started to believe that it is, or was once possible for male dwarves to become pregnant. But a male hobbit? He can't quite wrap his mind around such a possibility. Especially when he's the hobbit in question.

So he merely stares besottedly into Thorin's eyes and acknowledges to himself the very real eventuality that he _will_ in fact, disappoint his love, as the months tick by and no sign of pregnancy makes itself known.

And it _is_ impossible for male hobbits to become pregnant, isn't it? Or he'd have heard otherwise . . . wouldn't he?

Finally, he looks away from the hope and love in Thorin's eyes. At Lar, who's considerately not staring at them as if they're a two-person show. He is, in fact, staring back the way he'd come. 

“Night's fast coming on. I suppose I'd best be off, you majesty, your highness,” he says suddenly, turning and bowing to them both. His blue eyes twinkle from a face that's all wind-burned skin and reddish-brown beard and hair. “You'll arrive to a feast that'll beggar the imagination.”

And with that, Lar is striding off north. Bilbo and Thorin stare after him till he's lost to their sight by a sharp turn on the path.

“How will he make it to the Door much sooner than we will?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin chuckles.

“ _He_ won't. But his messenger birds will.”

*

By the time the sky starts truly darkening, Bilbo's nodding in the saddle. So much so that when Thorin catches him at it, he halts the ponies and dismounts. Before Bilbo can rouse himself enough to ask what's going on, Thorin's climbed on behind him, arms sliding past Bilbo's waist to take the reins.

“I'll not have you falling and breaking your neck tonight, Master Baggins,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo's ear, nuzzling his hair. His body, hard and familiar, now, presses against Bilbo's back rather enticingly. Once Alan starts walking again, Thorin lets one hand settle on Bilbo's abdomen . . . though it's not long before that hand is drifting lower. Bilbo groans under his breath.

“Well . . . I'm certainly not sleepy, anymore,” he breathes, clearing his throat and squirming back against all that lovely hardness and familiarity. Thorin chuckles and kisses Bilbo's neck, his hand sliding back up to encircle Bilbo's waist and squeeze him tight.

“Don't let _me_ keep you awake if you need to rest, my love.” Thorin's chuckle stirs Bilbo's hair. “It's been a long week, and you're going to need all the rest you can get. Not that I'll let you get much.”

Bilbo grins at the rough, hungry promise in Thorin's low voice and places his hands over Thorin's. Leans his head back on his lover's shoulder and gazing up into eyes that are very nearly burning with _want_. He shivers pleasantly. “Never have I been so looking forward to sleep deprivation.”

Thorin kisses him, teasingly at first, then with less control and more ardor as Alan walks on, and around them, darkness begins to settle in for the night.

*

The moon has risen to light the way by the time Bilbo and Thorin reach the Door Unto the Mountains, though its light is rivaled by the pitch torches that have sprung up along the path.

Dwarves start to merge into their way from other directions as the path branches out. First they come in ones and two, then in trickles, then gaggles, then throngs. Some of them are riding ponies, though most are not. All of them seem to recognize Thorin by sight, hailing him respectfully, and even occasionally familiarly. Some of them even have a word for Bilbo, whom they call _your highness_ , though mostly the dwarves they come across don't seem to have got the message that there's a new consort in town.

They _do_ seem to have heard there's going to be a rather sudden celebration in honor of King Thorin's return and they're quite excited about it.

These dwarves are, for the most part, covered in dust and sediment, which suggests that they're miners, at least to Bilbo. Many of them have beards of epic proportions, though there seem to be some who keep their beards shorter, like Thorin. They uniformly have dark hair and eyes, but for a few blonds here and there. Almost all of them have prominent noses and brows. They—

“So you'd be the prince-consort-to-be, then?”

Bilbo finds himself gazing down into light brown eyes, the deepest dimples he's ever seen, and a smile that could light up a barrow. The dwarf attached to them is, like most of the others, covered in dust. His nose is rather small, however, though that's more than made up for by his mustaches, which curl rather ridiculously up in front of his mirth-reddened cheeks.

Said mustaches are more than matched, by the equally ridiculous hat pulled firmly down on his head. From under the hat, braids that are mismatched in length and width straggle to broad shoulders.

“Er,” Bilbo says, but the dwarf is holding up his hand amiably and keeping pace with Alan.

“The name's Bofur. Didn't catch yours, yet.”

“Oh, er—Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.” Taking Bofur's hand, Bilbo has his own damn near wagged off his wrist.

“A genuine pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo finds himself smiling back at last, pleased, himself, to hear himself referred to by his name by someone who isn't Thorin. “Likewise, Master Bofur.”

Now, Bofur's eyes tick to Thorin, sitting behind Bilbo, and the arm curved around Bilbo's waist tightens just a little. “Your majesty,” Bofur says jauntily, sweeping off his hat and bowing—then nearly tripping, turned as he is toward Bilbo and Thorin. But he rights himself easily enough and keeps backing in the direction of the Door, which looms ahead in the darkness as distant shine of polished stone and moon-washed sigils.

“Bofur,” Thorin says rather dourly. Bofur's eyebrows drift up playfully, before he laughs and shrugs.

“And on that friendly note, I'll take meself off before I can talk up some new trouble for meself. Farewell, your majesty . . . and you, as well, your _beautiful_ highness. My sincerest congratulations on your upcoming nuptials—“ he glances at Bilbo's midsection, where Thorin's arm is still curled protectively, possessively “—as well as my brightest hopes for our wee princeling.”

With another bow, he turns to face the same way as everyone else. Soon, he's swallowed by the throngs, just another be-hatted dwarf with ax and/or shovel, leaving a blushing, startled Bilbo and a muttering Thorin in his wake.

“Tell me, Thorin, am I the only one who _doesn't_ think I'm pregnant with your son?” Bilbo asks, torn equally between amusement, irritation, and his own sense of disappointment.

“Possibly,” Thorin admits, though reluctantly. “It's in your scent, now—pregnancy has changed it in a way _you_ don't recognize, but that any male dwarf will. Your scent says you're claimed and unavailable for . . . the attentions of other males.”

“Indeed?” Bilbo snorts. “Well, I still think you're all mistaken. But, as you say, time will tell.” He squeezes Thorin's hand, where it rests on his waist. “Now, tell me more about this _Bofur_ of yours.”

Now, Thorin's the one to snort. “He's none of _mine_! He's . . . widely-known among the dwarves of the Blue Mountains for that mouth of his. He's something of a story-teller and bard. A skill which is much-prized in these latter days.” Thorin makes a grudging sound. “Bofur knows all the old stories, songs, and histories, and tells them very well. And for no more price than a hot meal or cold ale. Often for less than that.”

Thorin sighs, kissing the top of Bilbo's head. “He is a good person . . . but he talks too much. He knows nothing of discretion or of tact.”

_Another way of saying he's too honest,_ Bilbo thinks wryly, but snugs back into Thorin's embrace. Thorin sighs again and holds him a little tighter, sharing warmth and so much more.

“You ward off the chill of these nights, my love,” Bilbo says softly, and Thorin leans down to whisper in his ear:

“You warm me from my skin, to the marrow of my bones, Bilbo Baggins. And you shine a light into the very coldest, darkest reaches of my heart.”

Bilbo leans his head back on Thorin's shoulder, turning his face up to meet a soft kiss that carries on for longer than either of them plans, and carries them, quite without noticing, through the Door Unto the Mountains.

*

The sudden loud, reverberating cheer that goes up once they pass under the portcullis of the Door breaks their kiss.

Bilbo finds himself gazing around a huge main hall—larger than any structure he's ever seen or been in—filled seemingly to the rafters with dwarves, clapping, stamping, and hollering. The only thing separating him and Thorin from that crowd is a small compliment of guards facing outward, at the crowd.

Blushing, Bilbo glances back at Thorin, who smiles and mouths, _our people_.

Then he's dismounting from Alan quickly, and clasping hands with a few of the nearest well-wishers over a guard's shoulder, before turning to lift Bilbo off the stolid, unfazed pony quite, without Bilbo's own assistance.

Bilbo holds on tight to Thorin for a few moments, his legs shaky from a day spent in the saddle. He glances up into Thorin's eyes and catches a look of pride and concern that makes him smile and lean in to steal a kiss. Thorin, for his part, steals several very thorough ones back, to more cheers from the madding crowd of dwarves.

Then the guard is moving forward through the crowd, sweeping Bilbo and Thorin along with them.

“The royal wing is not far!” Thorin mouths against Bilbo's ear, sliding an arm around Bilbo's waist and drawing him close. “We can rest for a little, until the feast is set out, then rejoin the people.”

Bilbo turns a bright, sparkling gaze on Thorin. “Silk sheets?”

Thorin's eyes run over Bilbo's comparably slight frame and he smiles promisingly. “Not then, I'm afraid. For once I have you in my bed, I won't let you out for a day and a night.”

Shivering, Bilbo nods. “I'll hold you to that, love.”

“I think you'll find that I'm a dwarf of my word.”

*

It _is_ rather far to the royal wing. If only because there's such a crowd of dwarves—Bilbo even spots a few female dwarves, rosy and pretty, if a bit furry—between it and them.

But once they reach the entryway into the royal wing—which starts just past the impressive throne room—the crowd is immediately a thing of the past. Two steps, a few steps, them a corner and a flight of steps beyond them.

Bilbo and Thorin both let out sighs of relief and smile at each other, the former daringly swinging the latter's hand as they walk along.

They walk down well-lit corridors with smooth, polished walls and floors of dark stone that feels chilly under Bilbo's bare feet. And here, just as with the main hall, he can't stop goggling at the hugeness, the carved and cunning beauty of this strange home.

_My home, now_ , he thinks, suddenly missing Bag End with a sharp pang. But despite the pang, he knows, he'd rather be where Thorin is any day of the week—even if it was the ends of the Earth—than alone at Bag End, as he has been since his parents died. . . .

_Whatever else, I'm not alone, anymore._ Bilbo smiles to himself and looks down from the flying buttresses and at his lover. Thorin's watching him curiously.

“What are you thinking about, my love?” he asks.

Bilbo moves closer to Thorin who happily puts an arm around him and holds him close. “Just thinking that I'd rather be here or anywhere with you, than anyplace else in the entire world. That when I'm with you, I don't feel alone anymore.”

“That's because you're _not_ alone, anymore. You have me . . . and our child, whether you believe he exists or not,” Thorin adds wryly. “You have the people of the Blue Mountains. You are one of us, now, and nothing will ever change that.”

The backs of his eyes stinging, Bilbo stops, and bobs up on his toes to kiss Thorin, who cups Bilbo's face in his hand tenderly. Around them, unnoticed, the guard stops.

“I love you,” Bilbo whispers softly, urgently. Thorin's thumb brushes his lower lip reverently.

“And I, you, Bilbo. And I, you.” Thorin frowns a little. “I will do my best to make these drafty old mountains feel like home. To make certain you never . . . regret giving yourself to me.”

Bilbo kisses the tip of Thorin's thumb. “I will _never_ regret that, Thorin. I can only do my best to make certain you feel the same.”

Shaking his head, Thorin's frown lightens into an almost-smile. “You are my _match_ , Bilbo Baggins. Mate of my body and my heart. I can only thank Durin that he saw fit to put you in my road.” He shudders. “But for a simple twist of fate, we might never have met at all.”

“You mean but for a simple twist of ankle?” Bilbo chuckles and Thorin joins him, holding him close and kissing him again. Bilbo's arms wind around Thorin's neck and he gasps into the kiss when Thorin sweeps him up in his arms and carries him hence.

Around them the guard moves silently, as one, and from behind them come the echoes of the still-cheering crowd of dwarves.

Ahead of them—not _so_ far ahead, afer all—lay the royal chambers, where, at last, the guard departs back the way they came, except for two, who take up posts by the doors. The one on the right opens the doors for Thorin and his consort-to-be.

Once inside, with the door shut behind them, Bilbo and Thorin kiss again, Thorin moving them deeper into chambers of which Bilbo only gets the barest impression—high ceiling; rug-covered, polished floors; tapestry-covered walls; sofas and chairs and tables—until he stops, breaking their kiss to look around. Bilbo takes the opportunity to do the same.

“It's—“ he begins, taking in the austere bed chamber, of which only the bed seems to be inviting (the sheets do, indeed, seem to be made of silk, and turned down welcomingly) “—so spacious!”

Thorin grins and kisses Bilbo's cheek. “Is that your kind way of saying _unfurnished_?”

“Well. . . .” Bilbo sniffs when Thorin laughs at his chagrin. “It could do with a bit of cozying up.”

“You have free reign, of course, to decorate as you see fit,” Thorin says, still laughing a little. “I've never had an eye for that sort of thing—never spent much time in here for it to really feel like home. But now, I'm thinking that will all change.”

Looking into Thorin's suddenly serious eyes, Bilbo nods. “I want every time you walk in here to feel like coming home.”

“It will, with you here.”

Bilbo looks pointedly to the bed, then back at Thorin, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“A day and a night. I promised you nothing less, and I mean to keep that promise. In the meantime, we have a feast to attend and a wedding to participate in—“

“So soon? But we haven't even begun to plan!” Bilbo exclaims, startled and feeling quite overwhelmed. Thorin grins.

“There's very little ceremony to dwarf weddings. We simply declare our vows and sign a contract in front of witnesses, and the thing is done. No doubt Balin, my right hand, will have a contract already drawn up. Probably _will have had_ one drawn up for longer than you've been alive.” Thorin snorts. “But once the wedding is done, the feast can commence. And after a seemly amount of time spent shaking hands and greeting people, we can sneak off to our chambers and disappear for the next day and night.”

Somewhat relieved, Bilbo heaves a sigh. “Well, I suppose that's not _so_ bad.”

“No, not so bad, at all,” Thorin agrees, taking Bilbo's lips in another lingering kiss before putting him down. “I suppose I should leave you to rest a little and wash up before the ceremony and feast . . . before I . . . start our personal festivities rather earlier than planned.”

With that, Thorin clears his throat, bows, and makes his exit, closing the doors behind him. Leaving Bilbo alone in a huge, austere bedroom that, despite the cheery fire going in the massive hearth, is still chilly.

Turning 'round in a circle, arms wrapped around himself, Bilbo finally pads toward the bed—large enough to comfortably sleep eight, it seems—and sits gingerly on the edge, running his hands over the sheets.

It's the first time he's ever touched silk sheets—even Baggins money can't afford such largess—and they feel wonderfully cool and softer than he imagines clouds to feel.

And of course, one imagining leads to another: he finds himself picturing Thorin tumbling him on these pristine white sheets . . . being pinned to unbelievable softness by Thorin's delightful hardness. . . .

Suddenly the room is a good deal warmer than it _had_ been.

_This is my life, now_ , Bilbo thinks wonderingly, swinging his feet up onto the bed hesitantly, then letting himself fall back into the bed's softness, arms and legs splayed out. _This is my life!_

And, caught between the wonder of his new circumstances and thoughts of what Thorin will be doing to him in this bed, it's some time before Bilbo can bring himself to get up, _wash_ up, and get ready for his wedding, the feast thereafter—

—and the day and night after _that_.

End


	4. A Fete and a Feast, a Day and a Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See previous chapters for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I wish 'twere mine, but 'tis not.

Washed up and rested—and having resisted the urge to wank to thoughts of Thorin's having him on the silken sheets of their bed—Bilbo emerges from their bedchamber almost shyly, looking around. He spots Thorin sitting at a large desk not far from the even larger hearth of the main room. At his side, looking over a piece of parchment is another dwarf—older than Thorin, if his grey hair is anything to go by—with an air of both competency and kindness to him.

Bilbo approaches them diffidently on cat-quiet feet. Neither dwarf notices his approach until he's quite close, but both smile when they do, Thorin standing up, and the older dwarf stepping forward and bowing low.

“And you must be Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he says, straightening to hold out a hand to Bilbo, who takes it. His hand isn't wagged off, but it _is_ very firmly shaken. “I'm Balin, son of Fundin.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Bilbo says, a bit flustered and blushing. Balin's smile is gentle and reassuring.

“Likewise, your highness.”

“Please, call me Bilbo. I'm afraid every time I hear _your highness_ , I look around to see who you all are speaking to.”

Balin laughs. “I seem to remember Thorin once said the same thing about being called _your majesty_ ,” he says fondly, glancing at his liege. Thorin _hmphs_ , steps around the desk, and comes to put his arm around Bilbo's shoulders, kissing his temple.

“We are well-matched in many respects.” Thorin looks down into Bilbo's eyes and smiles warmly. “Are we not, my love?”

“That, we are,” Bilbo replies, smiling himself, and turning his face up for a kiss. A kiss he receives almost instantly. “Was I interrupting something important?”

“Not interrupting at all, actually. You're just in time to look over the marriage contract,” Balin says, turning back to Thorin's desk and picking up the parchment. It's longer than Bilbo is tall, seemingly, and filled from top to bottom with ornate cursive writing. “If it meets with your approval, then we can commence with the wedding and the signing of the contract in the Great Hall.”

Balin holds the contract out to Bilbo, who takes it reluctantly. “Er . . . I don't think I can read all of this before sunrise.”

Laughing, Balin comes to stand next to Bilbo and takes the contract, gesturing at the topmost paragraph. “Then allow me to take you through it for expediency's sake. Now, this _first_ clause. . . .”

*

“I feel so under-dressed.”

“You look fine.” Beat. “You _look ravishing_.”

“You're only saying that because you wish to ravish me, Thorin.”

“Guilty.”

“But you look so . . . kingly and handsome with your crown and armor. Meanwhile, I'm wearing my traveling clothes . . . I'm certain I just look like some rabble you picked up by the wayside.”

Thorin stops and pulls Bilbo into his arms. Behind them, Balin pauses, his eyes averted as the king kisses his consort-to-be passionately. Ahead of them, the guard stands stolidly, awaiting the king's leisure.

“You have bewitched me, my love,” Thorin breathes when he lets Bilbo up for a much-needed breath. “You are beautiful to me no matter what you wear or don't wear. And you will cast the same spell over our people.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, reaching up to brush Thorin's heavy hair back over his mailed shoulder. “I'm just Bilbo Baggins. Just a plain, ordinary hobbit—nothing special. Not even for a hobbit. I'm just . . . _me_. Hardly fit for a king.”

Thorin caresses Bilbo's cheek with the tips of his calloused fingers, his gaze solemnly holding Bilbo's. “You are . . . everything _this king_ has ever needed or wanted. Everything our people have hoped for. You don't yet know it, but soon, you'll see just how well-matched we are, just how destined for the Blue Mountains you are. I wish that I could make you see that you are no ordinary _anything_. That you are . . . a gem, perfect and lovely, and that what you wear is as nothing compared to _who you are_.”

Bilbo blinks back tears. “Oh,” he says softly, then embraces Thorin as tightly as the armor will allow. Thorin obligingly does the same, kissing the crown of Bilbo's head.

“Now. Let's have no more of this silliness about you not being fit for me, when we both know that we're a _perfect_ fit for each other.” Thorin, holds Bilbo back a little, to look into his eyes. “Let us make the perfection of our union plain before the eyes of our people . . . yes?”

Bilbo finds himself smiling, despite the tears running down his face. “Yes.”

Thorin brushes his tears away and kisses him once more, softly and sweetly . . . then they resume their walk to the Great Hall hand in hand.

*

The ceremony itself, performed as it is by Balin and in front of what must be all the dwarves in the world, is indeed a quick one.

But it seems even more so to Bilbo who, dazzled by the reflected torchlight from all the polished surfaces, and the murmur and susurrus of the crowd, tries to focus only on Balin's words and Thorin's hands holding his own. Thorin's eyes gazing into his own.

“—in sickness and in good health, till love leave you or death take you?” Balin finishes, looking from Thorin to Bilbo and back again.

Thorin smiles at Bilbo gently, his eyes steady and certain. “I do. On this, my life, I do swear.”

Balin nods his approval and turns to Bilbo. “And do you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire—“

“I do,” Bilbo blurts out suddenly, turning vermilion, but brazening it out. Said brazening is rather easy whilst looking meeting Thorin's deep, dark, encouraging gaze. “I very much do take Thorin, son of Thrain to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to protect and defend, to share my wealth and my home, my joys and my sorrows, in sickness and good health, till my love, undying and ever-green, leaves me, and _beyond_ the hour when death shall take me . . . I do. On this, my life, I do swear.”

When Bilbo finishes, a cheer goes up across the Great Hall—how, in the reverberating echoes of every cough or murmur or cleared throat, the crowd of dwarves had made out what he said is quite beyond him—that beggars all previous cheers. It startles Bilbo into looking down from the podium and out across the gathering. At which point he pales and his knees go wobbly . . . until Thorin lets go of his hand to cup his face and turn it back toward his own. He's smiling warmly and proudly.

“ _I love you_ ,” he mouths, and Bilbo flushes in with sudden, rocketing pleasure.

“And I, you. And I, you.”

Then Balin's saying something else—something in _Khuzdul_ which, Bilbo has learned, is the language of the dwarves—before bringing out the contact, which he'd gone over with Bilbo at length (and which Bilbo still barely understands), a quill, and a small phial of ink.

In moments, Bilbo is signing the contract in his round, neat cursive. Then it's Thorin's turn to scrawl in his spidery, spiky script, just below.

Then Balin is turning to one of the guards—ceremonial, this time—who hands him a plain gold coronet with three rays emanating from it. The coronet then gets passed to Thorin, who turns to Bilbo. Thanks to Balin's foresight in explaining at least the bare bones of the ceremony, he knows what's expected of him next.

With as much grace as he can muster, Bilbo kneels in front of Thorin, never breaking eye contact as the coronet descends. . . .

It's surprisingly heavy, weighty on his head, though it fits well enough that he doesn't feel as if it's in danger of falling off.

Balin intones something rather dour-sounding in Khuzdul, reaching out to take Thorin's right hand and Bilbo's left one. When he finishes speaking, he brings their hands together and Thorin pulls Bilbo to his feet.

They smile at each other for long moments, and the silence in the Hall is thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Well? What're you waiting for? _Kiss him_!” Balin says, putting a hand on Bilbo's and Thorin's shoulders and shoving them at each other.

Not needing to be told twice, Thorin pulls Bilbo to him and kisses him long and hard, and that roaring cheer of approval goes up again, along with the clapping and stamping and, from somewhere distant, drums.

When the kiss ends, the cheering goes on and Bilbo, held tight as he is in Thorin's strong, mailed arms, laughs a little.

“Is this a dream?” he asks his husband—his _husband_ —the _king of the dwarves_ , dazedly. “Am I dreaming?”

“If either of us are dreaming, let it never end,” Thorin replies fervently, glancing out at the crowd, at his people— _their people_. “Pray Durin this never ends.”

*

Shortly thereafter the king and his consort make their procession down the from the podium and through the Great Hall, greeting their subjects.

The procession continues from the Hall, to the throne room which, though smaller than the Great Hall, is equally as grand in art and architecture. Every surface shines and is filigreed with sigils or design. Bilbo goggles at it all as Thorin leads him up the several shallow staircases to the throne itself, which is actually three connected seats.

He turns, with Bilbo still on his arm, to face the following crowd. He bows deeply to his people, Bilbo following his example. And in turn, his people bow deeply to him.

Then Thorin is sitting in the middle of the three seats. Balin, without being asked, sits in the right-hand seat, and finally, shaking just a little, Bilbo, still holding Thorin's hand, sits in the left-hand seat.

The murmurs and sporadic cheers of the crowd fall silent and, between the weight of all those gazes and the weight of the coronet on his head, Bilbo Baggins feels very out of his depth, indeed.

But before long, before he can even turn to Thorin for some sign as to what's to happen next, the drums start up again, and with them other instruments: flutes, trumpets, stringed instruments of different kinds, and singing . . . low, grave, but somehow exultant singing. . . .

Then the formerly somber crowd is all a mass of talking, laughing, singing, dancing dwarves. And Thorin squeezes Bilbo's hand and kisses his cheek, lingering to whisper.

“Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?”

Bilbo snorts and covers their linked hands with his other one. “Except for the bit where I thought I'd faint dead away . . . otherwise known as the _whole ceremony_.”

Thorin laughs and raises their hands to his lips to kiss them. “You did splendidly, my love.”

“Aye, that, you did, your highness,” Balin adds with a wink. “I daresay you're doing a fine job of winning the hearts of our people.”

Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up. “But—I haven't _done_ anything!”

Balin smiles gently. “You've made our king happy and you've given us hope for the future. Given our lives and labors _meaning_ , again.”

Shaking his head, Bilbo shrugs haplessly. “How've I done all that?”

And Balin opens his mouth to speak, but Thorin silences him with a wave. Then he kisses Bilbo's hand again.

“Time will tell,” he says simply, and Bilbo blushes, glancing down at his abdomen.

“My lord, I fear your hopes will be dashed in but a matter of months,” he says softly, a tear running down his face. For he understands, suddenly, how this dream, this idyll must end.

He will, sooner or later, be put aside for someone, male or female, who can truly give Thorin a son to pass his crown on to.

Though his love will grow ever-green, though it will remain undying, it must yield to necessity, in time. Rather a brief span of time, too.

_But I knew this from the beginning, did I not? That it would end because of this?_ Bilbo takes a deep shuddering breath and more tears fall. _I knew that I could not bear him a son and that he must put me aside for the sake of his line. I knew this and I married him, anyway, to have him for at least a little while. . . ._

Thorin tilts Bilbo's face up by the chin, frowning as he brushes away tears with one rough thumb. “My love? Speak, and tell me what saddens you.”

Bilbo musters up a smile from somewhere and puts aside his melancholy with great effort. “You mistake me, my lord. These are tears of joy. Never have I been so happy as I am, now. Were I to live a thousand years, never again would I be this happy.”

Thorin searches his eyes intently . . . then smiles, himself. “And time will prove you wrong on this, as well, for I will dedicate my days to making each of yours happier than the last.”

“You've stolen the very words from my heart.”

Thorin opens his mouth and would say more, but just then a bowing servant with a huge tray of food—more different kinds of meat than Bilbo has ever seen in one place in his life—is at the throne. And when Bilbo looks out across the crowd, he can see other servants similarly positioned, and dwarves holding pieces of red meat, on and off the bone, waiting for their king before they set to.

Thorin gives Bilbo a wry, apologetic glance, then turns his attention to the tray, choosing a mutton chop. Then the servant has turned slightly so that he's facing Bilbo, who hastily chooses a piece of salted pork. Balin takes a pork chop.

The room goes silent as Thorin raises his mutton chop and take a bite. Balin and Bilbo share a glance and do the same to their respective pieces of meat.

Then the entire throne room is eating and laughing. Bilbo's barely halfway through his piece of salted pork before another servant, with flagons of strong-smelling dwarven ale comes 'round.

“It may be a bit stronger than you're used to, lad. If I were you, I would drink sparingly, or we'll be _carrying_ you to the royal wing,” Balin says as Bilbo frowns down into his flagon. Thorin's already finishing his and Balin's reaching for his second.

Taking a small sip—just one small sip—Bilbo nearly spits it out. It's far stronger than what he was used to getting at the _Green Dragon._ , and made the Gamgee apple cider he'd once arm-wrestled Jamie Grubb for the last of seem like apple _juice_.

“Er, I think you may be right, Balin,” Bilbo coughs out, clearing his throat and handing his flagon to Thorin, who takes it and finishes a third of it in one swallow.

Then the rest in another.

But his eyes, when he looks at Bilbo, are neither bleary nor dazed. They are, however, twinkling. “Do you reckon we've been here long enough to be sociable and seemly?”

Bilbo finds himself grinning. “I _do_ seem to hear silk sheets calling our names.”

“Eh?” This from Balin, who's got half his attention on a new tray, this one of meats and breads.

Bilbo nods his head at the crowd filling the throne room. “But we'll never make it through that lot. Not before morning.”

Thorin stands and takes Bilbo's hand, pulling him to his feet. “Leave that to me. Balin, old friend . . . don't drink _too_ much.”

Balin snorts. “When do I ever do _that_?”

Thorin rolls his eyes, then tugs Bilbo with him around the back of the three seats that make up the throne. There is a high wall with a narrow wooden door set in it.

Thorin magics up a key from somewhere in his mail armor and unlocks the door, pulling Bilbo into narrow, fusty darkness behind him, kissing him promisingly before leading him hence.

*

Laughing and kissing, the king and his consort stumble their way into their bedchamber, shedding clothing and armor like unneeded skins.

When the last bit of mail and the last article of clothing have rolled or drifted out of sight and out of mind, the king swings his consort up into his arms and carries him to their bed. Once there, he lays his consort down on silk sheets softer than a caress.

Kneeling in the bed next to his consort, the king hungrily stares and stares down at his love until, blushing all over, his consort holds out his arms. The king goes into them without hesitation, kissing breathless moans from his lover's lips.

Their legs tangle as they embrace and roll across the bed, their moans interspersed with laughter—giggles, really—from the king's nervous young consort.

The king's kisses wend their way south, down his consort's throat, over his collarbone, down a mostly hairless chest, where he pauses to kiss both nipples. Then it's further down, past the concavity below his consort's ribcage, and then to his navel, where he pauses reverently, leaving several tender, gentle kisses and whispering something in that other language his consort cannot yet understand.

Then the king follows the faint trail of not-quite-auburn hair that leads to his consort's rampant hardness.

His consort gasps as the king runs his tongue up the turgid, leaking length, kissing the tip before sucking it into his willing mouth.

“Oh, _Thorin_ —“ the consort gasps out, his eyes wide, but unseeing as his king takes him in, then swallows around him.

The king pushes his consort's legs wide. Between the onslaught of sensation and the slippery silk of the sheets, they part easily.

Quickly wetting his fingers in his mouth, the king then brushes them back behind his consort's bollocks, teasing at the tight, twitching pucker between his cheeks. He feints several times before pushing against the first ring of muscle with one gentle, but implacable finger. In this fashion, he pushes his way into his consort's clenching, clutching body slowly, until he can go no further. Until he feels a tiny, protruding nub of flesh.

The king increases his suction while brushing teasingly against that small swelling, until his consort's back arches up off the bed. Another choked sound that might be the king's name escapes his bitten lips as climax takes him.

After swallowing his consort's hot release, the king reaches across the bed, to his night table. In seconds, he's unstoppered a small phial of oil and coated his palm and fingers.

Familiar with what comes next in this dance, from their time in a small way-station not very far from the Door Unto the Mountains, the king's consort begins to turn onto his stomach. But he's stopped by a gentle touch to his thigh.

He turns a questioning gaze onto his king and receives a grave smile in return.

“I wish, more than anything, to see your face while I make love to you.”

The consort shivers and smiles and nods. “But . . . how?”

The king leans down do steal a kiss that tastes like innocence.

“Let me show you.”

*

The fire has burned low, but is still bright enough to see by.

Bright enough for Bilbo Baggins' tired eyes to follow the pattern of tapestries and the filigree on the walls.

Bright enough for him to daydream by, and in his daydreams, he and Thorin are together, much as they are now. Only there's a small bassinet by the right side of their bed, rocking slowly. In his daydream, Bilbo sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and leans forward, looking into the bassinet. He wants— _needs_ —more than anything to glimpse the child they might have someday had, if only. . . .

If only.

“A penny for your thoughts, Master Baggins.”

“Hmm.” Bilbo smiles and snuggles closer to his husband, his daydream vanishing, leaving him to be mesmerized by the flicker of firelight off Thorin's shed gauntlet, where it lay near the hearth. “I'll take a kiss as payment, instead.”

Thorin chuckles and turns Bilbo's face up to his own for a kiss as gentle as it is sweet. Bilbo moans softly, happily.

“That's my end of the bargain upheld,” Thorin jests, settling back in the pillows, while Bilbo pillows his arms and head on Thorin's chest.

“Well, I was thinking . . . actually, I've completely forgotten what I was thinking,” Bilbo admits abashedly. “ _Someone_ drove the thoughts right from my head.”

Thorin rolls his eyes. “Oh, don't go blaming me, my love, for your forgetfulness. And anyway, you were the one who wanted the kiss instead of the penny.”

“Can't blame _me_ , either. Kisses are ever so much more fun than pennies.” Bilbo sighs, running his finger from Thorin's collarbone to his right nipple, which he circles playfully before kissing. Then tracing it with his tongue. Thorin inhales sharply, murmuring Bilbo's name, and Bilbo chuckles.

“Perhaps _this_ is what I was thinking about,” he says, blowing gently on the upraised, damp bit of flesh. “I've got a doggedly one-track mind, sometimes.”

“But oh, where that track leads,” Thorin growls just as playfully, rolling them till he's pinned Bilbo to the bed with his weight. Bilbo grins up at him, flushed and happy. Thorin kisses him again, pushing his body down on Bilbo's. He's starting to get hard again, and the friction of his cock against Bilbo's is fostering the same reaction.

Soon they're writhing and shifting, trying to get into the position they favor, laughing and kissing as they do. Finally, Thorin's got Bilbo arranged just so, one leg bent and pushed to the side, the other bent and dangling over Thorin's shoulder. From there, it's a slow, sweet matter of lining himself up and pushing forward into the tight heat of Bilbo's body, and letting that body guide him into doing what it enjoys best.

Bilbo's eyes are open, his pupils blown wide, so that only the thinnest ring of Autumn sky-blue is visible. He can't look away from Thorin's dark eyes, from the heat and yearning and possessiveness in them, even as his body moves in ways that are familiar, but still very new to him. He grasps Thorin's muscular arms and concentrates on breathing evenly, welcoming his husband's flesh into his own, riding out the initial discomfort taking something so huge and hard, until it turns into something quite different.

“ _Thorin_ ,” he breathes when Thorin hits that spot inside him, the one that makes his entire body light up like a field full of fireflies. Thorin grins and kisses him, thrusting harder and faster, till Bilbo can't return the kisses for panting and sobbing: “Oh, Thorin, oh . . . more, _please_. . . .”

And Thorin gives him more . . . till Bilbo's gone incoherent from the crashing waves of pleasure that take his body as thoroughly as Thorin is. Till all Bilbo can do is clutch at his husband and moan, and try desperately to get even closer to him.

Then Thorin's hand is insinuating itself between their bodies, going unerringly for Bilbo's aching, leaking hardness. He barely caresses the length of it before Bilbo's coming, his head thrown back, an exulting, despairing, desperate cry on his lips.

“So beautiful, my love, my consort,” Thorin murmurs and kisses into the pale skin of Blbo's throat as his own body goes still and he groans protractedly, as if pained by his own release. Then his shaking body collapses on top of Bilbo's limp, damp one.

For long minutes afterward, the only sound is the occasional _pop!_ from the fireplace and the sounds of their breathing evening out.

When both of them have recovered enough to shift into more feasible long-term positions—Thorin on his back once more and Bilbo sprawled across him like a blanket of hobbit—Thorin, his eyes still closed, smiles a little.

“I must admit, I like the way you think, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo snorts and chuckles, watching the firelight play across his husband's face. “Worth a kiss, I take it? Or at least a penny or two?”

Thorin's eyes open and his smile widens. “Worth every coin in my treasury and then some. Worth every kiss it is in me to give . . . and then some.” He reaches out and brushes Bilbo's fringe out of his face. “You are _so lovely_.”

Bilbo blushes. “You're the first and probably the only person to think so.”

“I highly doubt that. Perhaps I'm the first and only person brave enough to tell you to your face that you've enchanted him.” Thorin's fingers drift, feather-light, to Bilbo's lips. Bilbo kisses each fingertip and sighs.

“Stubborn dwarf,” he murmurs, but he's smiling. “And I hope you remember that I'm lovely while I'm redecorating these room so that our every word doesn't echo in the vast emptiness.”

Thorin rolls his eyes again. “Come, now, it's not quite _that_ desolate in here.”

“There's nothing in here to hold in the warmth—not enough rugs, not enough tapestries, not enough _anything_.” Bilbo laughs, lining his and Thorin's hands up, palm to palm, as if measuring them. Thorin's hand is the larger. “Oh, love, you'll be amazed at what a few creature comforts can do. They can transform even the most cavernous pile of rock into a real _home_.”

“Home . . . I haven't had one of those in more than a century. Not since. . . .” Thorin's smile turns melancholy and he trails off.

Tempting, though it is to try and tease the story of the loss of Erebor from his husband, Bilbo knows that such a tragic story—and he may not know much about Erebor, or anything at all, really, but he knows its loss, the loss of a _homeland_ , must have been tragic—will only come in time. When Thorin is ready.

_That time may not be for a long while, yet,_ Bilbo acknowledges to himself, sorry for the pain his husband must carry alone, in the meantime. _But I'll not start our marriage out by badgering his heart's deepest hurts from him._

“Did I ever tell you about the time Lilac Bracegirdle and Anna Bolger got into dregs of the Gamgee cider—the sops that're so strong, they're really only used to dose sick cattle?” Bilbo asks casually, knowing full-well he has _not_ told Thorin that particular story.

Blinking his way back out of the beginnings of a melancholic funk, Thorin smiles a little. “No, Master Baggins, I don't believe you have. Though I wonder . . . do most of your stories begin or end with someone getting into the Gamgee cider?”

Bilbo thinks about it, then nods. “The best ones do, _I_ think. It's very good cider. Well, maybe not the dregs and sops, so much. But Lilac and Anna didn't care one fig for that. They got themselves locked in the cider house overnight and found out the hard way that there's a reason old Mister Gamgee saves those sops for the sick cows and sheep! But it certainly made for an interesting town meeting the next day when they staggered in, still souced and ready to give everyone a piece of their minds.”

Thorin blinks again . . . then starts chuckling. Low and rich, and so hard, it shakes both his body and Bilbo's. “We must plan a journey to your Shire, if only so that I may sample this Gamgee cider and meet these Chubbs and Grubbs, Bracegirdles and Bolgers, Brandybucks and Tooks,” he says, wiping at his eyes.

Bemused, Bilbo nods again. “It'll be well worth the trip. You haven't lived till you've attended a hobbit wedding reception—which they'll likely want to throw for us, if we tell them we're married. And I don't imagine most of them have ever met a dwarf. You'll be quite the exotic visitor. But you'll be made welcome.”

Thorin's smile widens and he caresses Bilbo's cheek tenderly. “ That would make me most happy, indeed, to be welcome among your kin and countrymen.”

They gaze into each other's eyes for long moments before laughing and kissing. Then Bilbo's pillowing his face and arms on Thorin's chest once more.

“So. Start from the beginning, then: why were Lilac Bracegirdle and Anna Bolger so eager to get into the cider house? Had they no access to the cider any other way?” Thorin asks, running his hand down Bilbo's back and then up once more, along his spine. Bilbo sighs contentedly.

“That's the thing, you see. This was the year Jamie Grubb and I arm-wrestled for the last of the cider—I won, as you know—and there was nothing left but the sops. So I suppose, in a way, an indirect way, of course, that Jamie and _I_ had a hand in their drunken antics. But that's neither here nor there, really. For where the story _really_ begins is when, on Sunday afternoon, these two girls come staggering into the pavilion, each with a jug under her arm, giggling like madwomen and calling out the townsfolk by name. . . .”

End


	5. Shire-Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See previous chapters for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer? I don't even know 'er!

“I think I may very well be dying, Dis.”

When Bilbo admits this to Thorin's sister, the dwarf-princess looks up from her mortar and pestle, a small smile playing about her lips. She's a feminized version of Thorin, solemn-looking until that gentle smile makes an appearance.

“Oh? And why do you think that, Master Baggins?” she asks, amusement coloring her voice. Bilbo leans against her heavy wooden table and sighs miserably, trying the best to ignore the way his stomach lurches.

“Because . . . I'm still waking up nauseas every morning, then throwing up my breakfast. And my lunch, too, some days. I barely get to keep anything down until supper!” Bilbo sighs again, turning his most pitiful look on his sister-in-law. “Please, don't you have any potion or herb that'll cure whatever it is I've got?”

Dis's kind smile gets a little kinder. “I've already told you, that there's no cure for what you've got, outside of another seven months. As to the nausea and vomiting, the packet of herbs I gave you to sprinkle into your meals isn't helping?”

Bilbo shrugs irritably. “A little. More so with breakfast, than with lunch. Though even the scent of food in the morning has become an absolute _nightmare_!”

“Hmm . . . my nephew's a picky eater, it seems,” Dis says thoughtfully and Bilbo feels a flash of irritation again. He's hungry, nauseas, frazzled and anxious from planning his and Thorin's trip to the Shire, and tired. All he wants is a little sympathy and a respite from this new and alarming ailment.

The last thing he wants _or needs_ right now is to be teased about the child he can never give Thorin.

_I am not pregnant!_ Bilbo wants to scream, for once and for all. But try and argue that point with any dwarf in the Blue Mountains and compare it to banging one's head against a stone wall. As far as everyone around him is concerned, Bilbo's carrying their future king.

Even Dis, sensible, practical, pragmatic _Dis_ believes it, and she's a bloody _healer_!

Bilbo groans and sits, laying his head on the table. A few moments later, Dis is stroking his hair.

“When I was pregnant with Fili, the morning sickness was almost unbearable,” she says in a soothing tone. “I could barely keep anything down, even with the herbs, much like you. But after six or seven weeks—“

“Six or seven _weeks_?!” Bilbo exclaims sitting up, forgetting for the moment that he doesn't even believe he's pregnant.

“—it passed and I felt like myself again. Better, even.” Dis sighs. “And with Kili, I barely had any morning sickness at all. He was always such an easy child . . . until he was old enough to be influenced by Fili, that is.” She chuckles. “How's Thorin been through all of this?”

Bilbo smiles a little. “He's been wonderful—my rock. Between planning this trip to the Shire and being so nauseas all the time, I've been rather awful to be around, I'm afraid. But Thorin doesn't seem to mind. He's been so sweet and solicitous.” _Probably only because he, too, thinks I'm carrying his son. When he realizes otherwise . . . when they_ all _realize. . . ._

“You bring out a side of my brother I thought lost with Erebor, Bilbo Baggins,” Dis says, her dark blue eyes suddenly solemn. “You are his heart, and if for no other reason than that, I love you like my own brother.”

Bilbo blushes and tries to hold her gaze. Dwarves are a stoic, but plain-spoken people. When they're moved by an emotion, they _say so_ without shame or hesitation. “Thank you, Dis. And I look upon you as my sister.”

Smiling again—she and Thorin have the same smile, though Dis's is more ready—Dis reaches out and caresses his cheek gently. Then her hand drops to his abdomen. “I'll prepare something a little stronger for the nausea, so that it won't plague you so on the trip. But you should use it no more than once per day, preferably in the morning. It should carry you through till after lunch.”

Bilbo takes her hand and squeezes it. “ _Thank you_ , Dis! You've saved me!” Bilbo kisses her hand and she laughs, chucking his chin.

“Think nothing of it.” She turns away for a moment to go rooting through drawers. “And if you're of a mind to wait, I can have it prepared for you in half a candle-mark.”

Nodding, Bilbo sags on his stool with relief. Her hearth is burning low, but with the remnants of his nausea making themselves felt, cooler air feels ever so much better. “Oh, I'm of a mind to wait. Your chambers are blessedly cool. Ours are always a little too warm. I made the mistake of complaining to Thorin and now he keeps our chambers like a furnace.”

Dis snorts and turns around with several bundles of dried herbs. “That's his way. You ask for heat, he gives you the heart of Summer. To the ones that he loves, he gives of himself wholly.”

“That, he does.” Bilbo smiles thinking briefly of the previous night, and all the nights (and not a few days) prior to that . . . before putting such thoughts aside. “That, he does.”

“I've always thought he'd be a wonderful husband and father, and now, happily, he gets that chance, thanks to you.” Dis grins and begins quickly removing leaves from sprigs. Her hands are always stained slightly green.

Bilbo leans on the table again, the relief of a few moments before forgotten. “Why do you all insist that I'm pregnant? If anyone should know whether or not I was pregnant, it'd be me!”

“Well. Have you ever _been_ pregnant before?”

“Er . . . no. . . .”

“Then you're hardly an expert, now, are you, dear?” Dis starts mincing the leaves, dark curls tumbling down her shoulders. “At any rate, you _are_ a fertile, and our peoples are capable of crossbreeding . . . which is obvious with the advent of your pregnancy—and yes, you _are_ pregnant. It's in your scent. And it's entirely possible that there may be other halflings out there like you. In which case, well, your Shire may shortly be seeing more dwarves in the next few years than it had in a life-age before that!”

Frowning, Bilbo watches her nimble hands at work. “You mean . . . there'll be dwarves going to the Shire to . . . kidnap hobbits for mates?”

Dis laughs again, her eyes twinkling as she glances at Bilbo. “Oh, me, no! More like _suitors_ looking for prospective mates. Bringing the traditional gifts of gold and jewels and other precious things. What my brother did . . . was unusual. And somewhat disturbing.” Now Dis is frowning a little, as well. “But between you both being in heat and the demands of his blood to father a child . . . I can understand why that might have driven him to kidnap you. I don't condone it, but I can understand it.”

“Well, believe me, I wasn't entirely thrilled with his style of courtship, either . . . but I've forgiven him for that. Especially in light of all that's happened.” Bilbo sighs again and prepares to bang his head against that stone wall. Again. “But I'm sorry to say that I'm _not_ pregnant and cannot become pregnant. I wish that I could give Thorin the son he wants so much, but I can't. And the dwarves that go looking for _fertiles_ , as you call them, among my people, will find themselves similarly disappointed.”

Now Dis is smiling again.

“Time will tell,” she says, just like her brother, and Bilbo buries his face in his hands and groans.

A stone wall, indeed.

*

On the morning of their journey, Bilbo awakens before Thorin does, as he usually has for the past three weeks, and pushes himself out of bed.

He pulls on his nightshirt and, mumbling to himself, stumbles out into the main rooms of their chambers, one hand on his gurgling stomach. He picks up his pace through the still-sparsely decorated space as the disquieting gurgles increase.

Shortly, he's bolting out the doors to the main hall of the royal wing, past the two guards, who—at this late date—are no longer surprised to see their king's consort come dashing out of the king's chambers, frantic for the loo.

Nor are they surprised to see him come straggling back nearly an hour later, still damp from bathing, still clutching his stomach and muttering, trailing the scents of soap and mint strongly in his wake.

*

Bilbo shucks his nightshirt and slips carefully back into bed, hoping for at least another hour of sleep. But despite his care, he wakes Thorin, who rolls over and pulls him close, spooning up behind him. He's hard, as he is every morning upon waking.

As Bilbo used to be before this ridiculous morning nausea.

“Good morning, love,” Thorin yawns in his hair, kissing his way to Bilbo's ear and nibbling the lobe. Bilbo finds himself smiling, in spite of the lingering queasiness, as Thorin's hand travels over his hip to squeeze where the squeezing is good.

“Good morning,” he returns, relaxing back into Thorin's embrace as Thorin strokes him, and thrusts into the shallow channel made by Bilbo's thighs. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”

“As always, when I sleep beside you.” Thorin kisses Bilbo's shoulder and his hand drifts up to Bilbo's abdomen which, though sore to the touch, still feels better with Thorin's hand on it. “How are you feeling, this morning? Nauseas, again?”

“Yes, but better, now. Barely made it to the loo in time, though.” Bilbo gasps as Thorin's hand drifts higher, still, to circle his nipples with calloused, but gentle fingertips.

“Have you spoken with Dis about it?”

“Every day,” Bilbo swears. Thorin's been on him like a hawk about seeing healers—specifically his sister, whose talents at midwifery and healing in general are unrivaled in the Blue Mountains. Hence her missing their wedding: she'd been at the bedside of a very ill and very pregnant female dwarf. The birth had been difficult, and nearly fatal for the mother. But Dis had managed to save both mother and child.

Dwarf lore, much like elven lore, has it that the hands of the king are healer's hands, but Thorin swears that that particular royal talent had all gone to Dis. And she's been present at nearly every birth in the Blue Mountains—relatively few since both female dwarves and fertiles are now a rarity—as a result. Nearly every dwarf under a certain age, and his mother, owe their lives and health to Dis, daughter of Thrain.

“She's given me something else to help with the nausea. Something a bit stronger for the journey back to the Shire. She says it should do the trick,” Bilbo adds rather doubtfully.

“Hmm. Then do the trick, it will. There is none more skilled in herbal lore than my sister,” Thorin says proudly, certainly. “And hopefully our son will take the hint and let you alone of a morning.”

“Mm.” Bilbo's _definitely_ stopped trying to convince _Thorin_ that he's not pregnant with his son. The dwarf-king is so convinced that he's going to be a father, it no longer annoys Bilbo . . . it simply breaks his heart every time Thorin mentions it.

But before it can do so, this time, Thorin's light playful touch turns purposeful. He kisses Bilbo's neck, leaving love-marks, and pinches Bilbo's nipples just on the pleasurable side of hard before his hand drifts back downward, resting briefly on stomach and abdomen, before finishing its journey to take Bilbo in hand.

“Oh, _Thorin, love_ ,” Bilbo breathes, reaching back to brush his fingers down Thorin's cheek. Then he's turning his face to meet a kiss that drives away the last of his melancholy thoughts and nausea. . . .

In minutes that feel like mere moments, Thorin's pulling Bilbo's leg up and back over his own, and slick, gentle fingers are pushing into Bilbo's anticipatory body. When the fingers have done their job of leaving Bilbo a stretched and quivering wreck, desperate for release, Thorin slides into him with relative ease, murmuring against Bilbo's cheek in Khuzdul and holding him tight.

Their bodies joined together and still for a few moments—the only sounds in the world their panting breaths—Thorin threads their fingers together and brings them to rest against Bilbo's abdomen.

Then he's pulling out slowly, before surging forward once more in a powerful thrust that hits that special spot inside Bilbo and rocks his body forward.

Tears springing to his eyes, Bilbo clenches them shut . . . clenches his entire body around Thorin. His shouted release, when it comes some time later, followed swiftly by Thorin's quieter, but no less intense one, is bittersweet.

Afterwards, Thorin holds him while, unaccountably, he sobs nearly silently into his pillow.

*

By the time they set off down their chosen trail out of the mountains, Bilbo's finally regained some of his composure, though he knows his eyes are still red and swollen, as well as his nose.

Behind him, On Bilbo's pony, Alan, Thorin's a silent, comforting presence. One warm, strong, protective, _possessive_ arm is looped around Bilbo's waist, his hand resting on Bilbo's stomach. His other hand is still inclined toward Bilbo even as it holds the reigns.

Following their trail are eleven empty wagons, and one relatively empty wagon carrying food and supplies for their blessedly short journey to the Shire. On the return journey, each of those wagons will be filled with Bilbo's furniture and possessions.

Each wagon has two guards assigned to it. Their faces are masks of stolid stoicism, but there's a current of excitement running through them almost to a dwarf.

For the Shire, it is rumored among them, is a land abound with beautiful, unmated fertiles.

Bilbo sniffs and rolls his sore, tired eyes. Now, he not only has to worry about disappointing his husband, but a small legion of dwarves, as well.

And, to add misery to misery, so far the pony's swaying gait is making his nausea think about returning.

_It's going to be a long journey,_ he thinks grouchily. And just then, as if sensing his souring mood, Thorin kisses the tip of his ear and whispers: “ _You are my perfect gem, and I love you_.”

Bilbo blinks several times, then leans back against Thorin, his eyes closed on more hot, traitorous tears. He'll be triple-dipped if he starts _sobbing_ again. And in front of all these strange dwarves, too.

“I love you, too,” he chokes out around a heart that's suddenly taken up residence in his throat.

*

The journey only takes six days, even with the slow pace of the wagons.

During that week, Bilbo finds that though the nausea seems to be mostly under control, he's even moodier than he usually is, of late. He's both desperate to _get there_ and _anxious_ about arriving. He's certain he drives Thorin up a wall, but if so, Thorin doesn't show it—in fact, Thorin is more solicitous than ever. This, despite the fact that, for lack of privacy, they're not able to make love at all during the trip.

(Well, except for one time— _times_ —on the third day, in the shadow of a crumbled rock wall, during a halt for lunch. Bilbo's pretty certain the guards had known what they were sneaking off to do from the first. And then one of the guards had had to come and _get them_ three hours after they sneaked off because it was time and well past to be moving on again. _That_ poor fellow, who must have drawn the short straw, had found king and consort naked and in the midst of another go on the king's rumpled, royal-blue cloak . . . the king had _not_ been pleased.)

But the weather is nice enough for early Autumn. There are a few rain showers, but mostly the skies are a clear blameless blue that Thorin likes to equate flatteringly with Bilbo's eyes. The air is chill, but it's nothing that the day spent riding in Thorin's arms can't easily dispel.

Right around the fourth day, the land starts looking familiar again. Bilbo starts recognizing bits of acreage and forest. Places he's trekked through and camped in. . . .

They've arrived in the Shire.

*

On the fifth afternoon, they finally run into another hobbit.

He's the first one they spot close who's enough to do more than wave at from a distance: an elderly fellow, who goggles at the company of dwarves and who barely notices Bilbo for all his staring at the company.

“I take it you're headed for Hobbiton?” he asks, peering past Bilbo at Thorin with open curiosity and awe. Bilbo can't blame him. Even nearly three months into their marriage and he still feels a sense of quiet awe that this brave, handsome, _kingly_ dwarf even exists—let alone exists with _him_.

“Yes . . . my consort and I have business in Hobbiton,” Thorin answers gruffly. The old fellow looks confused, for a moment, and examining the company once more. Likely for a female dwarf.

“Consort, you say?”

Bilbo smiles limply and waves, finally catching the old fellow's attention. “That would be me. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“Ah.” The old fellow huffs then nods. “And a Baggins, eh? You'd be wanting Hobbiton, alright. You're not far off. Less than a day's travel. Well, a little _more_ with all them wagons to slow you down.”

Bilbo's stomach begins to roil just a bit, despite the powerful herbs doing their work rather admirably.

“So close,” he murmurs to himself, even though he'd already known. This close to Hobbiton, Bilbo could practically tell the company how many steps more it was to his front door.

The old fellow proceeds to give them unneeded directions to Hobbiton—twice, to make sure they understand him—before Thorin finally makes good their escape with many a grave thanks. 

They're nearly a mile on their way when Bilbo hears one of the guards on the first wagon say, quite clearly: “He wasn't beautiful _or_ fertile.”

Bilbo very nearly laughs, and covers it with a hasty snort.

*

They arrive without fanfare, in Hobbiton, late on the sixth night. Few are out and about to notice the large party of dwarves and their wagons, but those that do, talk as they pass by. All of them are folk that Bilbo recognizes and vice versa. But more than himself, it's the dwarves that get whispered about, and pointed and stared at.

And when the townsfolk do finally notice Bilbo, it seems to come as no surprise that among this invasion of dwarves, is none other than that odd, orphaned Baggins boy.

But the only hobbit to do more than stare and point at the party as they make their way to Bag End, is Hamfast Gamgee, old Mister Gamgee's youngest son, sitting on his father's front step and smoking his pipe. He watches their approach with nothing more than simple curiosity and more than a little amusement.

“'Lo,” he calls calmly, his bright blue eyes taking them all in, landing firstly then lastly on Bilbo. “Been gone a while.”

Bilbo tries on a smile and finds he doesn't have to try hard at all. “Er, yes. That I have.”

“Brought some friends back with you.”

“Yes . . . and my h-husband, Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin, this is Hamfast Gamgee.” Bilbo gestures at the dwarf-king sitting behind him, then at Hamfast, whose bushy blonde brows shoot up just a bit, then lower again. He nods at Thorin, smiling wryly.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Oakenshield.”

Thorin inclines his head solemnly. “The feeling is mutual, Master Gamgee.”

Hamfast's clever eyes tick to all the wagons once more, then back to Bilbo. “Not plannin' on stayin' long, are you?”

Bilbo sighs. “Not really. Just long enough to close up Bag End.”

“You'll be living in the Mountains, now, right? To the West?”

“The Blue Mountains, yes.”

Hamfast nods again. “They'll be wantin' to throw you a to-do to celebrate your marriage. And as a going away party.”

Now, Bilbo smiles, and the persistent roiling of his stomach eases, somewhat. “I thought that might be the case. I imagine everyone'll be wanting to get a look at my husband and his, er, friends.” He gestures at the guards.

“Aye. There'll be some as can't wait to have a party just to worm details outta you. And I'm certain you'll provide enough gossip material for years to come.” Hamfast laughs heartily, puffing on his pipe once more before putting it out and standing up. He snaps his braces once, smartly. “Well, it's time for me to turn in. But I reckon I'll be seein' you at least once before you leave.”

“That, you will,” Bilbo promises, sketching a neat little half-bow from his place on Alan's back. Hamfast snorts, but bows back. Less gracefully, but it's a bow.

“You're an odd one, Bilbo Baggins. But Hobbiton'll be less interesting for your absence,” he says firmly. “G'night, Mister Baggins, Mister Oakenshield, and company.”

Then Hamfast lets himself into his home and shuts the door quietly, leaving Bilbo to weather a sudden, almost incapacitating bout of homesickness for a place that doesn't really feel quite like home, anymore.

*

Bag End is a large house but, with twenty-six people in it, it feels very small, indeed. At first, when Bilbo lets himself, his husband, and their guards into his old home, he, too, feels a stranger in a strange land. Everything is, of course, still very familiar, but somehow as if it's all from another life.

“Welcome to Bag End,” he says lamely, for want of anything better to say, as the dwarves mill around near the front door, eyeing the front hall and, after a minute or so, finally wandering off down the hall in both directions.

Thorin, meanwhile, has turned to Bilbo, smiling, and says: “So this is a hobbit hole.”

“Well . . . I don't know how representative it is of most hobbit holes, but it's—it _was_ home, for me. And for generations of Bagginses before me.”

And some of Bilbo's melancholy must show on his face, because Thorin pulls him close for a kiss and a hug that lasts till one of the younger guards, Grelin, comes wandering back to diffidently ask if there's anything to eat.

Which serves to take Bilbo's mind off his homesickness and melancholy. A house full of hungry guests is, in every hobbit home—with the possible exception of the Sackville-Bagginses' home—a sign of a poor host. And Bilbo has been called many things, but never a poor host.

Unfortunately, the little Bilbo has left in his cold room is not fit to be eaten and is immediately thrown out. Which leaves them all eating from the travel rations they'd brought with them. Supper is rather dry and tasteless, but it's filling.

And the benefits of a warm place to eat it, out of the weather, are not lost on anyone.

The guards bring in plenty of wood for the fireplaces and with them all going, the whole house is soon quite warm and everyone in it quickly grows drowsy. Supper isn't finished till after midnight, and by then, everyone is more than ready to turn in for the night.

Most of the guards choose spots on the floor, all over the house. Bilbo and Thorin, of course, have the master bedroom to themselves—and make use of it frantically, for most of the night—and the other beds go to the winners of coin tosses, though they still wind up sharing the room, itself, with at least two other dwarves.

Well after Thorin's fallen asleep, Bilbo's still awake in his arms, listening to the familiar settling sounds of the house and the unfamiliar snores of some of his guests. As sleep finally takes him, he wonders if he'll ever get used to Bag End not feeling like home anymore.

*

Outside, the occasional hobbit straggling in from the _Green Dragon_ , passes the neat line of wagons in the road and wonders at them, before continuing the drunken stagger home.

*

Bilbo wakes up late, the next morning. It's closer to noon than it is to dawn.

He sits up woozily when he realizes he's alone in bed and looks around his old bedroom. It still feels familiar to him . . . just not quite like home. Especially without Thorin in it.

A sudden churning of his stomach reminds him that it's well past the time he usually chews the herbs Dis had given him. He retrieves the small pouch from his night table and immediately takes out a pinch of the herbs—medicinal-tasting, bitter—and chews then while he waits to truly wake up.

It's while he's chewing and waiting that the scents of breakfast reach his nose. Flapjacks and sausages and eggs and porridge and—

_But there's nothing here to make any of that with. Which is why I was planning to go to market first thing in the morning and—_

Bilbo's eyes widen and he stops chewing. Nearly swallows the mouthful of herbs—something Dis had warned him to _not ever_ do—when he realizes that these breakfast scents can mean only one thing: the dwarves had been to market.

_That_ wakes Bilbo up completely and he hurries to the door before realizing that, except for love-marks, he's quite naked.

He finds his own clothes folded neatly in his chair—Thorin is thoughtful, like that—and even as he hurries into yesterdays clothes, he sighs besottedly, telling himself how lucky he is. Then he's out the door and down the hall, with a brief stop at the loo to exchange the bitter herbs for some wilted, but still fragrant mint leaves.

_Then_ he's following the breakfast-scents to his kitchen.

*

“Ah, your highness! You're just in time for breakfast!” One of the guards, Maruk, declares when Bilbo walks into his own formerly-pristine kitchen—which is a complete mess of dirty dishes and napkins—and half collapses in the nearest chair upon seeing the mess.

Maruk almost immediately has a plate set before Bilbo. It's overloaded with flapjacks, sausages, and eggs. A second later, a bowl of porridge appears by his right hand.

“You all . . . went to market, I take it?” Bilbo asks rather faintly, imagining these guards—with their intentions of courting anything they think they can impregnate—out among the unsuspecting gentlefolk of Hobbiton.

“Oh, not all of us, your highness,” Maruk says, sitting at the table and attacking a plate of his very own. But he adds, before Bilbo can even heave a sigh of relief. “Just eighteen or so of us. The rest stayed behind to keep guard over you and the king.”

“Ah . . . _just eighteen_ of you . . . that's . . . well. . . .”

“This is a fine little town of yours, this Hobbiton,” Maruk goes on, sighing wistfully. “The folk are a bit skittish, but friendly, overall. And the _fertiles_ —by Durin's beard, I haven't seen so many lovely, young fertiles since Erebor! Perhaps not even then! Why, if I were I younger dwarf, I'd be out courting, right now, like half of the lads are.”

“Courting?!” Bilbo's mouth drops open in shock. “They're . . . but how—what—they're _courting_? Whom are they courting, so soon after our arrival?”

Maruk shrugs. “Anyone. Everyone. Did you know that practically every male hobbit of breeding age that we came across is a fertile, your highness? And not a single _virile_ among them!” Snorting, Maruk digs into his eggs. “Practically every dwarf that came with us is a virile, you know? And only past his first or second heat.”

Ignoring the beginnings of a headache that promises to swallow him whole, Bilbo sighs. “No, I did not know that, Maruk.”

Maruk nods. “They drew lots and everything to get the chance to be part of yours and King Thorin's escort here. 'Land of the Fertiles,' they were calling it and, well, it's certainly lived up to it's name.” Nodding again to himself, Maruk's dark eyes meet Bilbo's.

“From the way the lads are strutting, it mayn't be beyond the pale that you'll end up with some halflings in the Blue Mountains for company, after all. And in your similar condition.” He glances down at Bilbo's stomach—or rather at the portion of the table blocking Bilbo's stomach.

_And what condition is_ that? Bilbo thinks for one blank moment, then catches himself before he looks down at his stomach, too, and buries his face in his hands.

*

Shortly thereafter, the front door opens and closes and familiar footsteps make their way into the kitchen.

“Good morning, my love.” Thorin bends to kiss the top of Bilbo's head. Bilbo lifts his face from his hands and gazes up at Thorin accusingly.

“Where've you been?”

Thorin seems a bit taken back by Bilbo's tone, but answers readily enough. “Visiting with Hamfast Gamgee and possibly securing a few barrels of cider to take back to the Blue Mountains with us.”

Bilbo stands up, hands on his hips, quite near his boiling point. “Well, while you were doing _that_ , your guards were out . . . _seducing_ my town!”

Thorin frowns, but doesn't look terribly surprised. “Well, it's gotten started a bit sooner than I'd thought,” he sighs heavily. Bilbo's eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

“You _knew_ this would happen?”

“Well, yes,” Thorin replies, but without the level of dismay Bilbo had been expecting. “Didn't you?”

“Of course not!” Bilbo half-lies, remembering his conversation with Dis, but throwing up his hands angrily. At this point, Maruk clears his throat and excuses himself—and his plate—from their presences, bowing and backing his way out of the kitchen. “How could I possibly anticipate that a bunch of—randy dwarves would be drawing straws to see who gets to come to Hobbiton and—and—kidnap my friends!”

Thorin's frown deepens. “Just a moment, no one is going to kidnap anyone—

“Well, it worked out so well for you in _my_ case, I don't see why they _wouldn't_ try it for themselves!” Bilbo crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from Thorin, shrugging off the heavy hands that settle on his shoulders. “My friends have no idea what's in store for them. Getting taken away from their homes and gawked at and told that they're pregnant even when they're not . . . then having to live with that knowledge _every day_ while counting down those days till they're put aside for someone else who _can_ actually conceive a child—“

“Bilbo—“

“No, Thorin.” Bilbo turns to face his husband again. The shocked, saddened look he sees on Thorin's handsome face surprises him, but he refuses to let it stop him. “I won't let these people—these _good_ people go through that. Not if I can stop it. Not when _you can_ stop it.”

Thorin's shaking his head. “I don't understand what you mean, love.”

Flinching at the 'love,' but forging on, anyway, Bilbo takes a breath. “You can order them to avoid hobbits as much as possible.”

“In _Hobbit_ on?”

“Well, I said 'as much as possible.' It may not be easy, but it can certainly be done. Especially if you tell them not to go about 'courting' and—and—“

“Seducing?”

“Yes!” Bilbo nods fervently. “No seducing!”

Thorin smiles a little and reaches out for Bilbo. When Bilbo doesn't move away, Thorin takes the excited—shaking, and when did _that_ start?—hobbit into his arms for a long embrace. Eventually, the shaking stops and Bilbo sags in Thorin's arms, allowing his husband to hold him up.

"There will be no kidnapping and no seducing of your friends . . . though there will definitely be courting. The fact of what they are, the viriles and fertiles, will bring them together. It's probably bringing them together, now, just as it brought us together . . . there's no stopping it." Thorin says quietly, apologetically. "But I will not allow any of my guards to bring a hobbit back to the Blue Mountains with him unless that hobbit has been made fully aware of the . . . _consequences_ of going."

Bilbo looks at Thorin's solemn face. "You mean about the supposed pregnancy that will result from their mating with a dwarf?"

"Yes."

Bilbo buries his face in Thorin's chest again. “Havens, I just don't want anyone to get hurt,” he mumbles into Thorin's chest. Thorin runs his hand over Bilbo's hair and sways him gently.

“Have you been so hurt since I . . . kidnapped and seduced you?” There's a note of amusement in Thorin's voice, but there's gravity underlying it that makes Bilbo pull back just enough to look into Thorin's eyes again.

“Not by you, per se. It's just . . . you want something from me that I literally can't give you. And in time, as you say, you'll recognize that. When you do, you'll wrestle with it, but you'll put me aside for someone who can give you what you want so desperately.” Bilbo sighs, reaching up to brush Thorin's hair back over his shoulder. “I wouldn't wish the pain of that knowledge or eventuality on anyone.”

Thorin leans into Bilbo's touch and looks into his eyes steadily. “Do you really think that I would put you aside if I found out you couldn't bear my child. Do you really think my love that fickle?”

“It's not a matter of your love, it's a matter of your responsibility to your people. Your line must continue. You must marry someone who can give you an heir. I knew that when _I_ married you, but I thought it would be better to have you for a little while than not at all. I just—“ Bilbo looks away as tears well up in his eyes. “I just didn't realize how it would break my heart over and over to know that someday, I would have to be put aside. To know that no matter what we want, we'll never get it.”

And Bilbo buries his face in his hands again because he's _weeping_.

Thorin holds him close through it all, murmuring comforting nonsense that only makes Bilbo weep harder.

“My love,” Thorin says finally, softly, his own voice shaking slightly. “I will _never_ put you aside. Never. Not for my throne . . . not for anything. And if, as you say, you cannot bear my children . . . then things will remain as they stand, now. Fili will remain my heir.”

“I know you, Thorin. I know your heart.” Bilbo finally looks up into Thorin's eyes, his own wet and red. “You want a son more than any person I've ever known. You have your heart and mind bent on a child that doesn't exist. A child that will never exist for _us_. But maybe, for you and someone else.”

“There will _be_ no one else,” Thorin says stonily, his arms tightening around Bilbo. “There _can be_ no one else. We are joined till death and beyond. I could no more put you aside than I could change the color of my eyes.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Contracts can be got out of, Thorin. Contracts—“

“Bugger the contract,” Thorin blurts out, somewhat loudly, then repeats it more quietly. “The contract is just so much show. What matters is _us_. When we mated at that way-station, it wasn't just until we got bored of each other, or one of us wanted something the other couldn't give. It was for _ever_. Nothing will tear us asunder. Not even infertility—though, as I say, in time, you will see that you're anything but infertile.”

Bilbo frowns. “How can you _know_ —“

“Because I am Durin's heir and this was Durin's greatest gift to the dwarves.” Thorin leans down till his forehead rests against Bilbo's. “Believe what you will about the child you now carry. For time will prove you wrong on that count. But when it comes to _this_ matter, to fertiles and viriles, to mating and marriage, to _you and me_ . . . take my word on it. There is no _ending_ of _us_. We are as permanent as the sun in the sky, and the earth beneath our feet. We are eternal.”

Bilbo closes his eyes and moans as Thorin kisses him, hard and unyielding, his arms sliding up and around Thorin's neck.

When breathing once more becomes a priority, they separate, but don't move far from each other, still locked in their embrace. Thorin tilts Bilbo's face up by the chin. His eyes are somber and intent. “Now, let there be no more talk of putting aside or getting out of contracts.”

Sighing, Bilbo nods, too tired and emotionally wrung-out to do anything else. “Alright. I just wish—“

“I know what you wish, my love, for I know _your_ heart, too.” Thorin smiles just a little. “ _My_ only wish is that you would believe me when I say you can and have given me all I could ever want.” His hand slides around from the small of Bilbo's back, to his stomach.

And at Thorin's touch, Bilbo feels a flutter within his abdomen, like he's swallowed a fairy, wings and all. “Oh!” he says, one hand going to his mouth. Thorin's hand starts to move away, but Bilbo's own drops down to hold it in place. The fluttering intensifies for a few seconds . . . before fading away, as if the fairy has stopped flapping her wings and gone to sleep.

“What is it? More nausea?” Thorin asks worriedly, rubbing Bilbo's stomach soothingly. Bilbo shakes his head, shrugging . . . but smiling just a little.

“It's . . . _something_ . . . I just don't know what.”

But hope, such as it is, has been kindled.

_And perhaps hope's not the only thing that's been kindled,_ a soft voice suggests in Bilbo's mind. And scoff at it, though he does, that small, rag-tag hope remains.

“Come,” Thorin says suddenly, turning Bilbo back toward the table. “You haven't eaten anything since last night. You must be starving.”

He sits Bilbo down in the same seat he'd been in before, and himself in Maruk's chair.

“I _am_ hungry,” Bilbo admits reluctantly, just after his stomach growls. Thorin tsks.

“You must eat to keep up your strength.” And he watches Bilbo pointedly till Bilbo picks up his fork and digs into his eggs. His other hand he places on the table within reach of Thorin's. The dwarf-king's hand almost immediately covers his own, warm and rough and absolutely perfect.

And so the rest of the morning passes, Bilbo eating slowly while Thorin watches him—gazes at him with a love so burning and fierce, Bilbo feels it even when he's not meeting Thorin's gaze at the moment. But when he _is_ meeting Thorin's gaze. . . .

_Eternal_ , Bilbo thinks wonderingly, just barely starting to believe it, and placing that bare belief in his heart somewhere next to his rag-tag hope.

End

  



	6. A Thain, a Courtship, and a Walk to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin, along with their personal guard, have returned to the Shire to pack up Bag End. Mating season in the Shire has officially begun. See first chapters for a more thorough description of the entire 'verse, itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I treat them as if they were.

Bilbo awakens the next morning to a delightful lack of nausea and Thorin's mouth on him.  
  
The sun is shining brightly through the window and a few late-leaving birds are singing in the hazel thicket.  
  
And for once, all is quiet in the rest of the house.  
  
Smiling, at the ceiling, Bilbo arches up off the bed and comes with a soft cry. When sense returns to him, Thorin is holding him tight and kissing him good morning.  
  
All in all, it's a lovely way to start a lovely day.  
  


*

  
  
If it were up to Bilbo, he'd stay in bed with his husband all morning, but there are things to do, preparations to be made, and the bulk of the furniture to see packed in the wagons.  
  
Grelin, the youngest and shyest of the dwarves—he always blushes when Bilbo addresses him, and stammers when making a reply; perhaps because, unlike the rest of the guards, he's seen his king and his king's consort naked and rolling around on the king's cloak like teenagers—is waiting in the kitchen with Maruk for orders (of the dwarves who'd accompanied them to the Shire, he's also the most focused on actually removing, rather than in courting).  
  
But there're really no orders to give, at this point in the removing, except for, “anything that isn't nailed down or too heavy to lift goes in a wagon,” and Bilbo gives the order half-jokingly. Grelin, however, takes every order seriously and, largely without the help of his comrades, begins to shift furniture.  
  
“And  _you._ ” Thorin turns a stern eye on Maruk who's, as usual, lingering over a plate of food. “Go help him. I brought you all here to help us move, not to chase after fertiles or eat my consort out of house and home.”  
  
Maruk sighs, but stands up smartly. “Yes, my king.”  
  
“And where are all the others? Yours and Grelin's faces are the only ones I've seen around with any regularity over the past two days?”  
  
Maruk shrugs apologetically. “My king, they've all found, er, someone to . . . pass the time with.”  
  
“ _All of them_?” Bilbo exclaims, wondering just how many of his friends and neighbors have been captured by theirs and the dwarves bone-deep need to . . . be together. And if any of them have mated in the same fashion he and Thorin had, three months ago.  
  
 _Oh, dear . . . I only hope that they kept their word to Thorin and at least told their partners what to expect when it comes to . . . cementing any unions. And of what's expected of them once those unions are sealed._  
  
Fretting, Bilbo looks at his husband, who seems rather put out, but otherwise unconcerned about the situation, beyond the lack of manpower to finish the removal of Bilbo's furniture.  
  
“I'm surprised you and Grelin aren't out there with them. Surprised and relieved,” Thorin adds gruffly. Maruk snorts.  
  
“I'm old enough that I can keep myself in check. And young Grelin's not even had his first heat, yet. We're the two misfits of the company.” And with that, Maruk excuses himself to get about the work of moving.  
  
Bilbo and Thorin look at each other.  
  
“Do you really think they'll keep their word?” Bilbo asks. Thorin smiles reassuringly.  
  
“I trust them to, yes.”  
  
Bilbo runs his hands through his hair. “I can only imagine what the rumor mill is saying about it. Dwarves in Hobbiton, seeking mates. Mates to carry off to the Blue Mountains and impregnate.” He laughs a little, both amused and horrified at the sound of it said so plain. “I wonder if any of the hobbits they've set their sights on will want to go.”  
  
“Or if any of my guards will want to  _stay_ ,” Thorin muses with a sigh, then smiles at Bilbo's look of shock. “Don't be so surprised, my love. Your Shire and Hobbiton are lovely, and their people equally so. If anyone and anything is doing the seducing, it is your town and countrymen.”  
  
“Hobbits?  _Seductive_?” Bilbo laughs again. “We're known for many things, my lord, but not for our seductive ways.”  
  
“Ah, but there are many ways to be seductive. To enchant and to ensnare,” Thorin murmurs, pulling Bilbo into his arms and kissing him breathless. Then kissing him some more . . . till there's a knock at the front door.  
  
“That had better not be the Sackville-Bagginses again,” Bilbo whispers. “Even if I were moving to the Moon, they'd only get Bag End over my cold, dead body.”  
  
“That Lobelia was  _quite_  unpleasant,” Thorin says, chuckling a little. “Your stories about her didn't do her justice.”  
  
Hand in hand they walk down the hall, to the front door, just as the bell rings, rather impatiently.  
  
“Hmm. Well,” Bilbo notes hopefully. “Lobelia certainly never rings. Only pounds on the door like an enraged gorilla.”  
  
Thorin laughs and Bilbo grins before composing himself and opening the door. On his front step is a tall—for a hobbit—dark-eyed, dark-haired youth with sharp, pugnacious features and a mule-stubborn look on his face.  
  
“Baggins,” he says, striding in without waiting for an invitation. “I hear you've co-opted the last of the Gamgee cider. Again.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Why, yes, Jamie, I have. It was a wedding present from Hamfast and old Mister Gamgee.”  
  
Jamie Grubb rolls his own eyes. “That's twice now, I'll be going without cider because of you!”  
  
“If you'll remember, I won that cider fair and square, last time. And this time, well, I can't help it if old Mister Gamgee wants to gift me his cider as a wedding present—oh, and this would be my husband, by the way. Thorin Oakenshield, this is Jamie Grubb. Jamie, this is Thorin.”  
  
Jamie's eyes tick to Thorin for a moment. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Oakenshield. And you, _Mister_  Baggins, can certainly help taking  _all_  the last barrels of cider! You could've accepted half that, and there'd have been plenty left for me and three other people, at least!”  
  
“And how would that look? Turning down part of a gift.” Bilbo huffs. “That's bad manners, that.”  
  
Jamie sputters, then starts rolling up his sleeves, revealing long, rangy arms. “I'll arm-wrestle you for half of what they gave you.”  
  
“Huh! I think not. I've no need to win what I've already got.”  
  
Sputtering again, Jamie's dark eyes narrow and he points at Bilbo dourly. “Mark my words, Baggins, you can't keep doing this every year!”  
  
“'Every year'? I've gotten the last of the cider twice in the past fifteen years. That's hardly every year.”  
  
Jamie huffs. “It certainly feels like it. And you mark my words  _again_ , you—“ he trails off, glancing over Bilbo's shoulder and down the hall. Bilbo follows his gaze and only sees Grelin and Maruk lugging the armoire from the bedroom toward them.  
  
“You, er,” Jamie tries to pick up where he left off, but his eyes, no longer angry, but confused and surprised, keep darting to the armoire and its bearers. Rather,  _one_  of its bearers.  
  
When the dwarves draw even with them, Maruk grunting and swearing, Grelin with his face set in a mask of quiet exertion, Jamie scowls and crosses his arms.  
  
“Just swooping back into town, stealing all our cider, then swooping back out, eh?” he demands of Bilbo, but his eyes are on Grelin, who's waiting along with Maruk for Bilbo, Thorin, and Jamie to step aside. The former two do, but the latter—never particularly quick on the uptake when it comes to hints or common courtesy—stands square in their path till Grelin looks up.  
  
“Oh . . . hello,” Grelin says after several breathless, intense moments, his grey eyes gone wide and a bit dazed. Jamie, somewhat flustered, clears his throat and nods.  
  
"Hullo."  
  
Confused, himself, Bilbo glances at Thorin, who sighs and shakes his head.  
  
“There goes another one,” he mutters. Bilbo, still confused, but still ever practical, pulls Jamie out of the way, so Maruk and (belatedly) Grelin can take the armoire outside.  
  
Jamie stares after them, gaping for long moments, until they disappear from sight around the far side of the first set of wagons.  
  
“Er . . . what was I saying?” he asks, letting out a breath and still staring out the door.  
  
“The cider,” Bilbo reminds him dryly.  
  
“Right. Cider.” Taking a deep breath, Jamie turns to face Bilbo again and musters up a glare. “You're a highway robber, Baggins. But since this'll be your last chance to steal the cider out from under everyone's noses, what with you moving away, I suppose I can . . . overlook your trespass.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes again. “That's magnanimous of you, Jamie.”  
  
“Yes, well.  _My_  wedding present to the happy couple.” Jamie sniffs and glances back out the door again. “And I, er . . . notice you've brought some . . . friends to help you remove your things. It's the talk of the town, all these dwarves appearing in Hobbiton.”  
  
“Yes, so I imagined it would be. What of it?” Bilbo asks warily. Jamie doesn't answer for long moments, caught up in staring out the door once again. Bilbo glances at Thorin, who shrugs and raises his eyebrows, nodding off in the direction Bilbo's armoire had gone.  
  
Which confuses Bilbo even more. But then Jamie's speaking again. “That was terribly rude of you not to introduce me to those two shifting the armoire, Baggins.”  
  
Sighing, Bilbo crosses his arms and taps his foot a little, already tired of Jamie's antics. “Yes, I suppose it  _was_  rude of me. That was Maruk, son of Darmuk, and Grelin, son of Orlin.”  
  
“I see . . . and which was the one with the red hair all in braids and the grey eyes? Maruk or Grelin?” This is asked rather breathlessly, and with the closest Jamie has ever gotten to diffidence in Bilbo's long experience with the hobbit.  
  
“That would be Grelin,” Thorin says before Bilbo can answer. Jamie nods as if he'd suspected as much.  
  
“Well, let it never be said that  _Jamie Grubb_  forgot  _his_  manners. I'll just go over and introduce myself, shall I?”  
  
And without so much as a backward glance or  _farewell_  to Bilbo and Thorin, Jamie's striding out the door, smoothing his clothes and running a hand through his dark hair.  
  
Bilbo and Thorin watch him go till he, too, is out of sight.  
  
“Well, that was strange,” Bilbo mutters, snorting. Thorin slides an arm around his waist.  
  
“ _That_  was a hobbit who is coming into heat.” Thorin corrects, to a widening of Bilbo's eyes. "Actually, I would say, from his scent, he's nearing the apex of it."  
  
“ _No_!” Bilbo glances back out the door, but the wagons block any view he'd have of Maruk, Grelin, or Jamie. “Not  _Jamie_?”  
  
Thorin nods. “He's a fertile. And he's apparently got his sights set on Grelin, whether or not he realizes it, yet. And Grelin . . . well, if he spends enough time around your Jamie, he'll go into heat, himself.”  
  
Still gawping, Bilbo shakes his head. “You mean . . . like you and I did, at the way-station?”  
  
“Aye.  _Exactly_  like you and I at the way-station.”  
  
Bilbo shakes his head again. “Ugh—that was an image I didn't need: Jamie Grubb, in heat. Simply ghastly. That horrifying image aside, however . . . is there anything we can do to stop it? Or at least slow it down till they've got to know each other a little better? Or at all?”  
  
Thorin gives Bilbo a look that's really all  the answer he needs. “We could sooner stop a lightning storm. Once a virile and a fertile are in heat and have set their sights upon one another, there's only one thing to be done.”  
  
“And what is  _that_?”  
  
“Keep an eye on them and wait it out.”  
  


*

  
  
Of course, before Bilbo can recover from that lovely shock, just as he and Thorin have returned to the kitchen, there's another knock on the door.  
  
"Now this had  _better_  not be either Lobelia or Jamie," Bilbo growls, stomping toward the front door. "And does no one ring the  _bell_ , anymore?"  
  
He swings the door open and is surprised to see none other than Isengrim Took, the Third. His sharp welcome dies on his lips and he smiles genuinely.  
  
"Ah, sir . . . good morning!" he exclaims with only slightly anxious cheer. He can sense Thorin standing behind him and glances over his shoulder. "Thorin—this is—er—well—" turning back to Isengrim, Bilbo laughs awkwardly. "Er, may I present Isengrim Took, the Third, Thain of the Shire . . . Isengrim, may I present my husband, Thorin, son of Thrain . . . heir of Durin and, um . . . king of the dwarves."  
  
To Isengrim's credit, his mild brown eyes widening slightly is the only sign he gives of his surprise. When Thorin bows to him, he smoothly bows back, smiling.  
  
“Well, this is certainly an honor!” Isengrim says pleasantly. “It's not everyday our humble town sees royalty!”  
  
“The honor is all mine, I assure you,” Thorin replies solemnly. “My consort has told me so many wonderful stories about his beloved Shire and Hobbiton, that I've been anticipating seeing it and meeting its inhabitants. He has made mention of so many of his kin and neighbors—and of you as a good and honorable Thain.”  
  
Isengrim flushes and waves a hand. “Oh, go on. I'm sure that with all the goings-on and characers in our Shire, Isengrim Took is far down on the list of good stories.” He laughs, his round, friendly face flushing further. Above it, silvering blond hair shines in the sunlight that lavishly splashes down on Bilbo's front step.  
  
Suddenly remembering his manners Bilbo sweeps a hand inward. “Come in, come in—welcome to Bag End! We were just about to sit down to a late breakfast—you're more than welcome to join us.”  
  
Smoothing his hands down this waistcoat-covered belly, Isengrim considers the offer, then nods. “If you're certain it won't be any trouble. . . .”  
  
“None at all,” Bilbo assures him, smiling and glancing at Thorin who also allows himself a small smile. “We're happy to have you.”  
  


*

  
  
During breakfast—Bilbo and Thorin's first, Isengrim's second—they speak of inconsequentials: the weather, the journey from the Blue Mountains, recent events in the Shire and Hobbiton. . . .  
  
It's not until breakfast is done and Bilbo's clearing away the dishes that Isengrim circles 'round to business.  
  
“That was a delightful second breakfast,” he says, patting his belly. Bilbo puts the last of the dishes in the sink and turns to face his husband and Isengrim.  
  
“Well, you can thank Maruk, son of Darmuk, for it. I'm afraid I overslept again, today, and he made breakfast for everyone.”  
  
“Ah. He's a fine cook, this Maruk. Another dwarf, I take it?”  
  
“One of our personal guard, yes.” Thorin nods. “One who, when he's not cooking, doubles as one of our removalists.”  
  
Isengrim grins. “A Jack-of-all-trades . . . he's a valuable commodity, then.” A pause. “Is he also here looking for a, er, mate, as well . . . as your other compatriots claim to be?”  
  
Thorin sighs. “Not actively, though I doubt he'd turn down the right person if they came wandering along.”  
  
“I see,” Isengrim says, then sighs, himself. “After a fashion, it's this searching-for-mates business that brings me here this morning, you see. Frankly, there are a lot of wild tales and gossip about rich dwarves descending on the town looking for prospective mates among a great many of our lads and a handful of our lasses . . . is this true, King Thorin?”  
  
Thorin looks over at Bilbo, who shrugs. “It's only fair to tell the whole truth, once and for all. And it's better than letting rumor explain our business here, rather than fact.”  
  
Thorin smiles a little. “Actually, I rather think Thain Took has the right of it. Most of it.”  
  
Bilbo sits back next to his husband, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Most of it, yes. But then there's the rest. About a certain state some dwarves and hobbits may find themselves in shortly. And the expected results of that state. In the interests of full disclosure we must be forthright.”  
  
Thorin sighs again. “This is not something dwarves talk about with . . . others who aren't potential mates, my love.”  
  
“But in this case, you must. To be fair, and so that there aren't secrets between our people. Especially when . . . so many dwarves will likely be coming here in the future.” Bilbo can see Isengrim watching them curiously, shrewdly, from the corner of his eye. “And, at any rate, this . . . heat-thing is something that deserves to be known about among hobbits. That we're capable of this . . . state. And, if it's possible after all . . . the other thing, as well.” Bilbo puts a hand on his abdomen, and Thorin glances down and his face softens.  
  
“Alright, love,” he murmurs, looking back up into Bilbo's eyes before turning to face Isengrim once more. “No secrets between our peoples. Thain Took, have you ever heard of Durin, the Deathless?”  
  


*

  
  
“I don't think he believed most of what was said,” Thorin grumbles as he and Bilbo watch Isengrim meander down the walk and to the road. “So much for disclosure.”  
  
“No, I don't think he believed it, either. Not even the part about hobbits going into heat. Never mind the part about male hobbits being about to get pregnant. Not that I blame him on that last bit. Although. . . .” Bilbo's hand goes to his abdomen, remembering that fairy-flutter he'd felt yesterday. He hasn't felt it since, and he'd certainly never felt anything like it before.  
  
All in all, it was very  _odd_ , was what it was. It didn't necessarily mean anything—and certainly not that Bilbo is  _pregnant_ —but it was . . .  _odd_.  
  
“But at least he didn't throw us out of town,” Bilbo adds brightly, grinning up at his husband. “I half expected him to, when you very bluntly told him that dwarves would likely be coming to the Shire in search of mates in the very near future.”  
  
Thorin makes a face. “He didn't believe anything else that was said—why should he believe that part? Why throw us out of town when none of what we've said is true—or is, at the very least, an exaggeration?” He snorts. “He won't have the luxury of disbelief for very much longer.”  
  
“Mm. Well, whatever else, it was extremely nice of him to offer to throw us a wedding reception.” Bilbo says, looking for a silver lining to cheer Thorin up. And this seems to, for he smiles a little.  
  
“I must say, I'm quite looking forward to experiencing a hobbit celebration.”  
  
Bilbo grins. “It's not quite as wild as a  _dwarf_  celebration, but there's plenty of food and drink and dancing—games and stories and sometimes, fireworks.” He sighs, thinking of that wandering wizard, Gandalf the Grey, and his whizbangers. . . .  
  
He leans on Thorin's arm for a moment, then tugs him inside. With the door shut behind them, the house is very quite—quieter than it's been since they arrived.  
  
“Where  _is_  everyone?” Thorin demands, though they both know exactly where their removalists are—or at least what they're up to. “Maruk and Grelin disappeared with that armoire three hours ago—more!”  
  
“With our luck, Jamie and Grelin are probably in the nearest pile of hay, and Maruk's probably found someone who catches his fancy, as well,” Bilbo says wryly, and the thought doesn't fill him with as much dread as it had a mere few hours ago. “They're out seducing hobbits.”  
  
“Yes, but they weren't all in heat, so they still have  _some_  sense of responsibility. They know there's a house full of furniture left to move, and no one's moving it.” Thorin throws up his hands. Bilbo catches them on the way down and pulls Thorin's arms around his waist.  
  
“Well, we could spend this rather unexpected alone-time fretting and grumbling . . . or we could spend it in my bedroom,” he suggests coyly, backing down the hall to the master bedroom and tugging Thorin with him. Thorin's glower lightens and he almost smiles.  
  
“But there's work to be done, my love—“  
  
“And it  _will_  be done. But for now—“ Bilbo laughs when Thorin pulls him close and leans their foreheads together. “For now, let's take advantage of this quiet, empty house, and the several hours we can hopefully expect till someone else comes knocking on the door. And when the erstwhile removalists straggle back here for supper, we can have a little chat with them about handling their responsibilities before they go off courting.”  
  
Thorin kisses Bilbo softly. “A fine idea.” He sighs and lets himself be tugged toward the bedroom. “ I foresaw the courting, but I did  _not_  foresee it getting in the way of the removal. I thought we'd have at least two or three days of productivity.”  
  
“Weren't counting on my people's charms to derail us, were you?” Bilbo jests, then gasps as Thorin swings him up into his arms, kissing him again as he strides to the bedroom.  
  
“Like a fool, I underestimated the powerful allure of a lovely young hobbit. A mistake that won't be repeated, I assure you.”  
  


*

  
  
Bilbo wakes at twilight, alone in bed.  
  
He stretches and yawns, his whole body delightfully achy and still a little tired. He lays there, in the dark, listening to the sounds coming from outside the bedroom. Sounds of exertion and the bumping of solid furniture into equally solid walls.  
  
He smiles, and after a few minutes, gets up.  
  


*

  
  
Dodging dwarves and furniture, Bilbo makes his way to the kitchen, of a mind to start supper. But when he gets there, he finds something he doesn't expect.  
  
Thorin, sitting at the table, with Grelin, speaking quietly in Khuzdul. Grelin is nodding solemnly, doing more listening than talking, as is his way.  
  
Neither dwarf notices Bilbo lingering in the doorway, though Bilbo notices after a few exchanges, Grelin blushes bright red—almost as bright as his braided hair. Then he says something hesitantly, smiling, and one of the words in his reply is  _Jamie_.  
  
Bilbo backs down the hall a little way before letting out a sigh. Then he turns and makes his way past the returning removalists, to the guest bedrooms.  
  
It's not the first door at which he knocks then peers around, but the second one in which he finds Jamie Grubb, laying naked, but thankfully covered by a sheet, in bed, the bedside lamp turned down, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach.  
  
“May I come in?”  
  
Jamie's hooded dark eyes meet Bilbo's own then drift back to the ceiling. “It's your house.”  
  
Biting his lip on a tart reply, Bilbo lets himself into the room and closes the door behind him. Then he leans on it, pursing his lips and puffing out his cheeks for want of anything relevant to say. But Jamie, seemingly never at a loss for words, is the one to break the ice.  
  
“Grelin thinks he's got me pregnant. Or that he will if we keep . . . sharing a bed,” he says, sighing, looking over at Bilbo again, his eyes less hooded than before. Bright confusion and weariness shines out. “He told me this story . . . I was only half listening at the time—but I got the salient points, alright. That he and his friends think that male hobbits are what they call _fertiles_ , and that means that they're capable of going into heat. And when in heat, are able to be impregnated. I don't know  _why_  they think this—something about someone named Durin—but he swore it was true. So he's obviously lying, gullible, or utterly mad.” Jamie snorts. “But I let him tumble me, anyway. Don't know why.”  
  
“Because you're in heat,” Bilbo says simply, and Jamie rolls his eyes.  
  
“That's what Grelin said.”  
  
“Grelin was right.”  
  
Jamie snorts again, sitting up and crossing his legs under the sheet, tailor-style. “Grelin is . . . he's. . . .”  
flopping back to the bed again, one wiry arm flung across his eyes. “Bloody hell, Baggins, I don't know  _what_  Grelin is!”  
  
“But you know you've never met anyone like him,” Bilbo says certainly, nodding. “You know that whatever else he is, he's yours, now, and that nothing can ever separate you. Not if you can help it.”  
  
Jamie lifts his arm a little and peers at Bilbo with sudden understanding. “This how it was for you, then?”  
  
“Yes.” Bilbo nods once, and Jamie covers his eyes again.  
  
“Grelin wants me to go with him to the Blue Mountains!”  
  
“That sounds about right.”  
  
Jamie makes a rude noise. “I'm a hobbit, Baggins. I belong in the mountains like elves belong in caves.”  
  
“ _I'm_  a hobbit and  _I_  went to live in the mountains when my husband asked.”  
  
“Yes, you're a hobbit, but you're a  _Baggins_ , Baggins. Hasn't been a Baggins that  _wasn't_  odd since the inception of the line!” Jamie snorts and laughs. “We Grubbs are a bit more practical than that. We know who we are, and what we're destined for, and it is  _not_  the Blue Mountains!”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up. “And if the Blue Mountains was where you had to be to have Grelin?”  
  
Jamie groans. “I don't see why he couldn't stay in hobbiton, with me.”  
  
“He's a member of the king's guard. He took an oath to protect and serve until his lord releases him or death takes him,” Bilbo says reasonably. This, however, does not seem to comfort Jamie. _Nor should it, I suppose_ , Bilbo thinks.  
  
“Nonsense!” The other hobbit blurts out, dragnig his arm away from his eyes and sniffling. “Who's this king that he'd demand such a thing of his subjects?”  
  
Blushing a bit, Bilbo sighs. “He's my husband, Thorin Oakenshield . . . and the oath is wrapped 'round in dwarvish traditions and notions of honor that go back thousands of years.  _I_  don't claim to understand it all, but there it is.”  
  
Jamie frowns. “ _Your_  husband is— _Mister Oakenshield_  is the king of the dwarves?  _You_  married a _king_?” Shaking his head, Jamie looks rather put out.  
  
Bilbo smiles wryly. “Shocking, isn't it?”  
  
“I'll say!” Shaking his head again, Jamie sighs. “This is just like the cider, all over again.  _You_  get the king, and  _I_  get a guard who's bound irrevocably to said king by life and death. It figures.”  
  
Fighting a smirk, Bilbo crosses his arms. Gloating, at this point, would be counterproductive. “Are you saying that you regret being with Grelin?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Jamie says without hesitation. “I've never been less sorry about anything in my life. He's . . . everything I've been wanting, but didn't know I wanted. It's like we were made for each other,” he muses, smiling a little. “Of course, it's not a  _perfect_  union of souls—he's got this foolish idea that he's somehow got me up the spout—“  
  
“He's not the only one,” Bilbo mutters, one hand going to his abdomen, as he remembers that faint fairy-flutters of the previous day. Jamie notices and tilts his head curiously.  
  
“Your dwarf's told you the same thing, then?” When Bilbo nods, Jamie huffs. “A mass delusion, if you ask me.”  
  
“But what if it  _was_  true?” Bilbo finds himself asking quietly. Jamie's brow furrows. “What if it were possible for you to conceive and carry a child.  _Grelin's_  child . . . would you want to?”  
  
Jamie frowns. “I—don't know. I mean, it's a nice fantasy, but how would they get the child  _out_  of me when it was time? I've heard horror stories from my sisters and cousins about childbirth, and they're all  _female_. So thanks, but no thanks.”  
  
“I suppose you're right,” Bilbo says reluctantly, absently. “But lately . . . I've been wondering . . . what if it  _is possible_? I mean, they were right about us going into heat, right? And why does _anything_  go into heat in the first place, but to go about the business of creating children? To what purpose this all-consuming drive to  _be_  with each other, if not for some grander purpose?”  
  
Jamie makes that rude noise again. “And who says that grand purpose has to be annoying ankle-biters?”  
  
“Well, what else  _would_  it be? And with the dwarves in such dire need of females and feriles?”  
  
Shrugging, Jamie laughs. “I don't know! Who knows what convoluted plan this Durin the Deathless had for his dwarves, and why he dragged hobbits into it? I just find it very hard to believe that this Durin would make it possible for male hobbits to get pregnant instead of just having his dwarves simply  _court female hobbits_.”  
  
Now Bilbo snorts. “You haven't been around them like I have. Male dwarves, by and large, tend to prefer male partners to female partners. Almost overwhelmingly so.”  
  
Jamie's jaw drops. “You're joking! You're not?” This, when Bilbo shakes his head  _no_. “Listen, you know I've always fancied lads, but even  _I've_  fallen for a lass or two in my time! If the dwarves are so inclined to male partners, how did they  _ever_  procreate? Oh, right. They had  _fertiles_ ,” he reminds himself, rolling his eyes. “Well, even if that was true, once upon a time, it's not true, now. And simply wanting it to be true of hobbits won't make it so. I suppose if Grelin wants me to come with him to the Blue Mountains, I will. I'm starting to think I'd do anything to be with him. But bear him a child? He'd best turn such thoughts free of his mind. It's impossible, whether I want it or not.”  
  
“That's what I've been telling my husband, but compare it to banging one's head against a stone wall.” Bilbo thinks of those fairy fluters again, and feels that faint hope. He tells himself to squash it, and take Jamie's approach to the whole matter . . . but he can't quite. “At any rate, I just wanted to let you know what's coming down the pike, in terms of Grelin's expectations and, well, I also wanted to see that you're alright.”  
  
Jamie smiles and reclines amongst the pillows lazily. “I'm spectacular. I dunno about  _your_ dwarf, Baggins, but  _mine_  is quite a proficient lover. Best I've ever had,” he adds in a purring, gloating voice. Bilbo makes a face and does his best not to get any mental pictures whatsoever.  
  
“Well, that was a detail I didn't need to have bouncing around in my brain. Right. I'll leave you to your . . . whatever it is, shall I?” Bilbo's got the door open and is slipping out under Jamie's half-lidded, amused gaze. “And welcome to Bag End!”  
  
He shuts the door before Jamie can respond, leans on it for a moment, feeling as if he'd just been put through his paces, then starts down the hall. He gets the shock of his life when, a few feet on, Grelin steps out of a shadow, hands clasped together, eyes cast down.  
  
“Your highness,” he says shyly. Bilbo, recovering from his shock, pastes on a smile, one hand over his rabbiting heart.  
  
“Yes, Grelin, hello . . . I hear congratulations are in order.”  
  
Grelin blushes, daring to meet Bilbo's eyes. His own grey ones are lit up with excitement. “He's . . . so beautiful and—and  _smart_  and funny . . .  _perfect_. And I never would have met him if it weren't for  _you_ , your highness.”  
  
And before Bilbo can demur, Grelin's knelt and taken his hand. “Thank you,” he says fervently, kissing Bilbo's hand. “I've asked his majesty if I might be reassigned as a part of your personal guard, highness, and he's said yes.  
  
“If ever by my life or death I can protect you . . . I will. Happily.”  
  
Bilbo is absolutely gobsmacked. If there's a protocol of things to say to this sort of declaration, he doesn't know what it is. So he just does what feels right. He pulls Grelin to his feet and gives him a hug that the dwarf returns tentatively and gently.  
  
“Thank  _you_ , Grelin, for your service and bravery.” Bilbo pats the young dwarf on the back and lets go of him to look him in the eyes. He's smiling like a child who's just gotten effusive kudos for something he's done. “Now, I believe there's someone waiting for you in one of my guest bedrooms. Best not to keep him waiting, eh?”  
  
Grelin nods, his eyes ticking over Bilbo's shoulder before taking on that heated, determined look Bilbo remembers from his own days at the way-station with Thorin. He lets go of Bilbo who steps slightly to the side to let Grelin pass. “Right. I mean,  _yes_ , your highness. Thank you, your highness.”  
  
“There's a good lad,” Bilbo says approvingly, patting Grelin's arm as he goes past.  
  
When the door to the guestroom opens and shuts—Jamie's throaty laugh and gasps are still audible through it, unfortunately—Bilbo sags and hurries down the hall before he gets waylaid once more. The closer he gets to the front door, the more moving furniture he encounters, having to duck and dodge his way to the kitchen. Once he arrives there, he finds Thorin standing at the window, gazing out into the evening. But as if he senses Bilbo's presence, he turns and smiles, extending a hand for Bilbo to come join him.  
  
For a moment, Bilob feels that fairy-flutter again . . . but between one step toward Thorin and the next, his stomach's settled once more. Then he's in Thorin's arms, being kissed  _hello_  and held tight.  
  
“Young Grelin's found himself a mate.”  
  
“So I've noticed.” Beat. “I've had a talk with Jamie. For all the good it did. He's willing to come back to the Blue Mountains with us, but he doesn't believe that he's pregnant, or will be.”  
  
“Do  _you_?”  
  
Bilbo sighs. “I don't know  _what_  I believe, anymore, Thorin, only what I wish. And I fear that my wishful thinking has made me . . . susceptible to symptoms and feelings I would otherwise not have.”  
  
Thorin looks down into his eyes and smiles. “'I don't know' is a good start. More has been made of less, in fact, and I will take that as a good sign.” He leans his forehead against Bilbo's for a few moments. “A very good sign, indeed, my love.”  
  
Bilbo doesn't know what to say to that, so instead of replying, he bounces up on his toes and kisses Thorin soundly. “Would his majesty like to accompany me on a walk around Hobbiton before supper?”  
  
Thorin inclines his head. “His majesty would like nothing better.”  
  
“Splendid! And I can show you the pavilion where the wedding reception will be held.” Bilbo grins. “Quite a few famous and, er, infamous weddings and receptions have taken place there, you know. Speaking of infamous, this time last year, Ned and Nelda Sandyman had  _their_ wedding and reception there.”  
  
“Indeed?”  
  
Bilbo nods, and Thorin takes his hand and they walk to the kitchen door. The night air is slightly chill when they open it, but it carries the scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke.  
  
“Of course, it was  _supposed_  to be Harland Quince's wedding and reception, but Ned Sandyman showed up right when the vows were being spoken and bollixed the whole ceremony. Stole Nelda Percy right from under poor Harland's nose!” Bilbo huffs. Harland isn't a  _close_  friend, but close enough that Bilbo feels quite badly for him. “He's  _still_  in the bottom of a bottle over the whole mess and  _Sandyman's_  still grinning like a common bandit. . . .”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Matter What We Breed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/757564) by [fideliant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant)




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